


Try, Please Try For Me

by LadySesame



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Fae, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Arranged Marriage, Fae & Fairies, Fae!Jaskier, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Fluff and Angst, Gentle Sex, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt's Canonically Huge Cock, I'm bi and I say so, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, No Homophobia, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Sharing a Bed, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, The Amazing Devil Lyrics, Title from a The Amazing Devil Song, also yes im that bitch that uses the amazing devil lyrics, idk what to tag, ill add more later, the societal norm is being bi, this is like my second fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-15 20:21:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 28,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29564619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadySesame/pseuds/LadySesame
Summary: Jaskier was part fae. A quarter to be precise.There was an old superstition among humans that names held power, but for fae it was so much more than that. Names meant control. If you knew a fae’s name, their true name, they would be completely at your will. If someone knew your true name you were nothing more than their servant. A slave. All it took was a single command.When war breaks out between neighboring kingdoms, Jaskier's father uses his true name and commands him to marry a witcher as part of a peace treaty. Neither Jaskier or Geralt are particularly happy with the arrangement. But as Jaskier gets to know him better he realizes that the witcher might just be able to give him the thing he's always craved. Freedom.Oh geez I suck at summaries.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 186
Kudos: 422





	1. The Few Things Someone Should Know About Jaskier

**Author's Note:**

> Welp, here's my second fic. I hope y'all like it. Geraskier is my new favorite ship and there is a lack of fae jaskier content which honestly should be a crime. I don't know how long this will be, or how good, but you're welcome to join me for what I know will be a wild ride regardless.

“You can’t be serious.”

Jaskier’s heart falls as he reads over the paper again, making sure that it wasn’t just his eyes seeing things. He wishes that’s what it was, that something was wrong with his sight or his mind to make him see words that aren’t really there. That would be a preferred alternative to the truth.

“It’s for the best, Julian. It will bring peace between our nations.”

Jaskier stares at his father, mouth gaping open like a fish as he tries to find words. “You’re trying to marry me off as a bonus in a peace treaty!” He cries, flailing the paper around as if it somehow proves a point.

“We are at _war_ , Julian,” his father replies. “Our people are dying. This treaty will put an end to it.”

“But-- you-- a witcher!?!”

“They don’t have nobility like we do. They are a warrior nation. Witchers are their most revered fighters.”

His father walks over to him and snatches the paper out of his hand. Then he grabs a pen from his desk and splays the document out on the surface, signing it in a single fluid motion.

Jaskier feels as though someone’s shoved his mouth full of cotton when his father offers the pen to him. 

He doesn’t take it.

“Why can’t it be someone else? There has to be someone else.”

“There is no one else.” His father punctuates each word. “No human would marry a witcher, let alone be strong enough to survive it for more than a few weeks. And even if they did, a witcher’s lifespan is longer by far. The union would be null and void in a manner of decades.”

“Oh so you wouldn’t subject a regular person to this, but when it’s me it’s no problem?”

His father puts a hand on his forehead, brows bunched together. “You are more...resilient than a regular person. And they requested that it be someone who is not fragile.”

_Not fragile._ Jaskier doesn’t want to even begin thinking about what that implies. “You-” he knocks the pen out of his father’s hand and points an angry finger at him. “You’re doing this on purpose! Aren’t you?”

His father raises a hand fast as if to hit him and Jaskier flinches. But the blow never comes. Instead his father sighs and goes to pick up the pen. “This is an honor for us. You’ll be doing a service to your country, and besides, it’s a better match than we could hope for since none of the other noble families would want…”

He trails off before he finishes his sentence, but Jaskier knows what he was going to say. 

“Say it,” he spits.

“No one would want to marry their children off to a halfbreed.”

Jaskier lets out a humorless laugh because of course-- _of course_ that’s what this is about. Everything always was in the end. His father treated his blood like it was a curse. Like Jaskier had personally decided to shame his family when _he_ was the one who couldn’t keep it in his pants and got a halfbreed bastard for a son as a result. 

Well so much for that. His father was a complete bastard of a man and he deserved a bastard son to shame his honorable name. 

“I’m not going to do it,” Jaskier says, anger bubbling inside him. “I won’t.”

“Do not test me boy,” His father warns. 

There’s something dangerous in his voice and Jaskier has heard it a thousand times before. He knows what will come next, but he will still try to fight it anyway, he always does. He would hate himself if he didn’t. If he just bowed his head and took the easy way.

“I’m not going to do it,” he repeats.

His father just offers him the pen. “Sign the treaty, Julian.”

_“No.”_

His father sighs, as if he had been hoping that Jaskier would agree, only to have his son spit in his face for no reason. In a calm voice he begins, “Julian Ogmios Alfred Pankratz.”

Jaskier moves to cover his ears but it’s too late, his muscles have already stopped responding. They tense up and his body goes rigid, as the magic renders his nervous system useless.

“You will sign this document,” his father places the pen in his hand and forces his fingers to curl around it, “marry Geralt of Rivia,” he pushes Jaskier roughly between the shoulder blades in the direction of the desk, “And cease your complaining at once.” 

Jaskier feels himself choke up as he tries to fight it, despite the pain that erupts through every fiber of his being when he does.

“That is an _order._ ” 

And then it’s over. Like someone has flicked a switch inside him, Jaskier's body obeys. He walks towards the desk. A tear trails down his cheek and he clenches his teeth as he tries so hard to stop himself.

He’s shaking.

He puts his left hand down flat on the table and holds the tip of the pen over the dotted line. 

He looks his father in the eye and whispers with as much malice in his voice as he can muster, “I hate you.”

Then he signs the document.

  
  


\------------------------------

  
  


There are a few things that someone should know about Jaskier in order to truly understand him.

Growing up Jaskier always knew he was an odd child. He wasn’t treated the way other children were. People were always cold towards him, distant. He didn’t have a mother, she had died giving birth to him. His father hardly spoke to him. From the moment he could first understand what it meant, Jaskier had heard people whisper the word when they thought he couldn’t hear him. _Illegitimate._ That’s what he was. He knew because people always said so.

He was his father’s son biologically, but apparently that wasn’t enough since his mother was the wrong woman. He was not his father’s real heir. He was a bastard. He was nothing. He had been told that many times throughout his life. 

In the halls of his father’s manor, portraits of his entire family, living and deceased hung on the walls. But Jaskier and his mother didn’t have portraits. Sometimes he wished that they did so he could have seen what she looked like. 

His father often said that Jaskier took after her, which only made the fact that he was illegitimate more obvious, so he would have to be extra well behaved to make up for it. He also said that Jaskier would never inherit his title because of it, though Jaskier didn’t particularly care about that. He didn’t give a rat’s ass who was the Earl and who wasn’t.

Yes, Jaskier was an odd child indeed because he didn’t fit in with the usual standards for high society. His very existence deviated from the norm. 

But that was only half of it.

Jaskier wasn’t just an odd child because of his illegitimacy. He was odd because of his heritage.

The most obvious signs were the physical ones. Jaskier had ears that ended in sharp points, but not like the ears of an elf. They were thinner, more angled, and long enough for the tips to just peek out of his hair no matter how hard he tried to cover them. His fingers were also longer than they should have been, not enough for it to be very obvious, but enough to know that something was off if you studied them for too long.

Jaskier was part fae. A quarter to be precise. It was one of the few things about his heritage that he knew for certain, since his mother had told his father that she was half fae and his father had told him. It didn’t take a smart man to fill in the blanks.

Jaskier had never met another fae, not even a halfbreed. Fae were rare. The little he knew about them consisted of rumors and myths that he’d gleaned from stories. He made a note of each fact in his mind as he learned it. Each one was a little piece of the puzzle that would tell him just how far his heritage extended. 

The most common legend was that fae couldn’t lie; it was in every story. Instead they twisted their words, spoke in metaphor so that they could say what they wanted truthfully without revealing intention. 

But Jaskier could lie.

Fae were immortal. Jaskier doubted that was the case with himself, but apparently his mother had lived hundreds of years, so everyone assumed that he would have a couple centuries at the very least. Though in truth Jaskier was unsure that he’d _want_ to live that long.

Then there was iron. 

Supposedly iron would burn their skin on contact. Jaskier had never felt more than a slight tingle when he touched the metal. It was a little uncomfortable, sure, but he could have handled wearing a ring of iron if the need arose.

Fae were also tricksters.

Jaskier didn’t think himself to be of the particularly devious sort, but he did enjoy a good prank now and then. He probably would have gotten around to much more mischief as a child if that hadn’t been stamped out by his father good and early.

Jaskier liked sweets and disliked things that were overly salty. He could eat an entire jar of honey if given the opportunity, but his favourite were honey cakes. 

And of course, fae could use magic. The used chaos like elves did if they learned how, but they also had their own unique ability to use glamour. They could make others see them how they wanted to be seen, create illusions, and make others compelled to do their bidding. 

Jaskier didn’t have magic like that. If he did he would have glamoured himself to look human. Then maybe people wouldn’t look at him with disgust. Maybe his father would be a little kinder to him if his appearance wasn’t a constant reminder of what he was.

He did have one ability though. Jaskier excelled in the arts. He loved to sing and play the lute (lute was his favourite but he could play almost any instrument with ease), he loved to think of clever poems and compose heartbreaking sonnets. And when he played or sang or recited verses, people listened carefully. They were _compelled_ to listen. 

He eventually found that he could use this talent to sway others to do what he suggested. 

Jaskier could recite a verse about something he wanted a person to do, and they would be more easily convinced to do that thing. If he put those words to music and focused as hard as he could he could even _force_ them to do that thing. 

He discovered this trick at the age of nine. The lute was new to him at the time and he’d been practicing by singing silly childish songs that he made up as he went. He had made a detour through the kitchens and spotted a tray of apricot tarts on the counter. In his childlike innocence Jaskier hadn’t thought twice about adding to his improvisation _how much he’d really like to be given some apricot tarts_ until the cook was standing over him and shoving the tray into his hands. He’d gorged himself on tarts that day until he threw up.

But for every piece of Jaskier’s heritage that he didn’t live up to, there was one crucial trait that he did.

Jaskier’s true name.

It was an old superstition among humans that names held power, but for fae it was so much more than that. Names meant control. If you knew a fae’s name, their _true_ name, they would be completely at your will. If someone knew your true name you were nothing more than their servant. A slave. All it took was a single command. 

Jaskier’s father, of course, knew his true name. He had been the one to give it to him. His mother had passed on before she could name him and make it secret, before he had grown enough for her to tell him how crucial it was that it was kept that way. For her to teach him that it would be preferable to die before he gave it to someone.

But Jaskier didn’t get that choice. In fact, after his father realized he was compelled to act when his true name was spoken, Jaskier hardly ever had a choice. 

Commands were woven into his mind whenever his father saw fit. 

Most of the time he left Jaskier alone. He knew, after all, how painful it was for fae to be compelled against their will. But some commands he seemed to deem necessary enough to use it. 

It started simple. _Julian, don’t run inside the house._

From that day on whenever Jaskier tried to run in the house he found his feet wouldn’t move at all. This proved a problem when the housekeeper accidentally knocked a candle onto the floor in the parlor and set the rug on fire and Jaskier could only briskly walk away from the danger.

After that his father was more careful with the wording of his commands. _Julian, don’t run inside the house unless you are requested to do otherwise or are in danger._

Words had to be specific. If they were too vague then commands prevented him from doing necessary things. Or they provided far too many loopholes. Jaskier didn’t take long to become an expert at finding them.

Then there were other commands like, _Julian, don’t insult our guests._

_Julian, remember your table manners._

_Julian, don’t tie knots in your step mother’s hair while she’s sleeping._

_Julian, stop trying to cover your ears when I’m giving you commands._

After the apricot tart incident he had been banned from singing in the house altogether. Mercifully, he was still permitted to play instruments, but he found his jaw to be magically locked shut whenever he thought about opening his mouth while doing it. 

At least he could hum, his father saw no danger in that.

Jaskier never mentioned his ability to sway people through poetry. Keeping it secret meant he could never use it, but it felt like a small victory to save one small part of his abilities for himself. 

And so, because of his magical blood, Jaskier lived all 19 years of his life compelled to be obedient. 

He hated it. He hated his name. He hated it so much that he wanted to scream until his voice was gone. He hated it so much he wanted to gauge the eyes out of whoever dared to even know it. 

He tried to fight it, he always did, but the most he had ever been able to muster was a single twitch of his finger 

That’s why he preferred to go by Jaskier. It was his way of distancing himself from everything. Of feeling like he was his own person. 

His father never respected that request. He called him Julian no matter how many times Jaskier tried to correct him. Jaskier suspected it was his father’s way of reminding him.

_I control you and there’s nothing you can do about it._

  
  


\-------------------------

  
  


When Jaskier goes to bed that night he can’t sleep.

He spends the whole night staring at the ceiling, hating his father, hating the peace treaty, hating himself.


	2. Well, Fuck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I don't really have an update schedule for this. I just write when I have time and when I feel like it and when it's done I post it. This means you could get like three chapters a week or one every two weeks or something. Sorry if that's too sporadic, college keeps me on my toes.

By all accounts Geralt of Rivia is a simple man, thank you very much.

His life consists of money and monsters, seldom both at the same time. 

He’s a witcher, one of those selected to join the School of the Wolf as a child. The life of a witcher is not one of happiness. You see more of the evil in the world than the good most times, when you’re a mutant.

But Geralt has never known anything different, so being a witcher is fine by him, he’s perfectly content to walk the path until he slows and then dies. 

But just because Geralt has simple wishes for his life doesn’t mean that he can't have nice things. He likes a good Temerian rye. He enjoys peace and quiet. He likes to sleep outside on starry nights. He likes to enjoy a good fuck now and then. He likes to spend time with his fellow wolves. 

It was early in the season, just barely through the thaw of spring. Normally at this time of year Geralt would be out killing hoards of ghouls in some backwater town for coin that was hardly worth the effort of the job, but Vesemir had requested that they stay at Kaer Morhen a little later this year.

There was a war raging along the border, and he didn’t want them getting too caught up in it. It was some petty human squabble, a disagreement over a worthless speck of land or something else that Geralt considered equally as pointless to fight over. 

Normally something like this didn’t concern them. And at first this battle was just like all the others. Geralt would walk the path like normal, while his contracts became significantly shittier. He always managed to pull through in the end.

But then a witcher from the Cat school had done something incomprehensibly stupid. 

He got involved.

And the humans had retaliated. And soon enough the entire school of the Cat had taken it personally enough to join in. 

After the witcher vow of neutrality was broken and the humans took notice it was only a matter of time before other schools started getting dragged into the conflict. Everything was basically a shitstorm after that.

And so Geralt lingers in the now far too empty hall of the deteriorating keep alongside his brothers, trying to stave off boredom.

It’s actually quite a pleasant evening, all things considered. They have venison from Lambert’s hunting trip that morning, white gull that they’ve been saving for a special occasion (and now was as good a time to get drunk as any), and Geralt finds himself in such good spirits that he doesn’t even mind losing to Eskel repeatedly in gwent.

Or course something has to come and ruin it.

Geralt is just processing an absolutely devastating turn from Eskel when Vesemir strolls into the hall. 

Lambert raises an eyebrow when the man sits down in the chair next to Eskel but says nothing. 

Vesemir has an air about him tonight and Geralt can tell he’s here to talk to them about something. The old witcher sits in silence and waits for them to finish their game.

Geralt finds himself going over the things that he and his brothers had done over the winter that might earn them a scolding. 

Sure he and Lambert had stolen Lil’ Bleater _one_ time, but no goats had been harmed in the process and he’d been returned to Eskel eventually. Maybe the old man had found out about the stash of aged white gull that he and Eskel had hoarded and hidden under the floor in the old laboratory and was upset that they kept it for themselves. _Yeah that was probably it,_ Geralt thinks.

To no one’s surprise Eskel wins the game. 

Vesemir clears his throat while Geralt is shuffling his deck for the next round. 

“Geralt, you remember the trip I took before you boys arrived for the winter?”

The trip to meet with the remaining elder witchers from the other schools? Yeah Geralt remembers him mentioning it briefly. Something about discussing matters with the war now that the Cats, Vipers, and Cranes had all gotten involved. 

“Hmmm.”

“We discussed possible responses now that our vow of neutrality is broken.”

“I remember, Vesemir.”

Geralt catches Eskel’s gaze from across the table. The scarred witcher gives him a look that says _why is he talking to you about this?_ Geralt responds with a look that says _no clue._ The two of them had gotten remarkably good at having silent conversations over the years.

“There was one thing we discussed that I never told you about.”

“And you’re telling us this now because…”

Vesemir hesitates and Geralt feels himself tense up slightly. It was uncharacteristic for the old man to display that kind of body language.

Lambert seems to have noticed too and straightens in his chair as if suddenly interested in the conversation.

Eskel’s face is unreadable.

“I never mentioned it because I thought the other schools wouldn't be able to agree,” Venemir says. “But after conferring with the nobles and taking a vote, we decided that a peace treaty with the south was the best option to end this war before it gets out of hand.”

Geralt stops shuffling his deck and places it down on the table. “Ok. And?”

Vesemir shakes his head. “There’s no easy way for me to say this, lad. Maybe it’s best you just see for yourself.” He pulls something from his pocket, then slides an envelope towards Geralt. 

Geralt gives his old teacher a look, but grabs the envelope and tears it open. Inside is what looks to be a document of some sort. At first glance Geralt notices that it bears the signatures of all the ruling nobles in the country-- as well as the symbol of each witcher school. His breath stops in his chest when he reads the words on the page. His heart nearly stops when he catches his _own_ name written there.

Oh no.

No. No, no, no ,no, no. Nope. There was no way this was happening.

Geralt slams the paper face down on the table.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he chokes out.

“Afraid not, lad.”

“Why, what is it?” Lambert is suddenly on the edge of his seat with interest and immediately shoves himself into Geralt’s space, making a grab for the letter. 

Geralt moves with inhuman speed and snatches it back up before his brother’s fingers can so much as brush the paper.

“It’s nothing,” he growls.

“Oh don’t be like that, Geralt. Let me see it.”

_“No.”_

The younger witcher stares at him for a moment. Then he tackles Geralt to the ground.

Geralt tries to throw Lambert off of him, but the other witcher holds fast and clings to his arm like a bear trap. He snarls and pushes back, but he’s at a disadvantage and he can’t defend himself and the paper at the same time.

“Just. Give. it. To. me-- agh! You bastard!”

Lambert jumps back, blood dripping from his nose where Geralt elbowed it. He feels a surge of satisfaction at getting a god blow in. Lambert bloody deserved it. 

Geralt is so caught up in admiring his moment of triumph, in fact, that he doesn’t notice Eskel has gotten out of his chair until it’s too late.

Eskel swipes the now crinkled letter from his hands with ease.

He gives it a once-over and his eyes go wide. Then he lets out a low whistle.

“Really?” he says, turning to look at Vesemir. “Geralt?”

Geralt lets out a groan, and flops back into his chair, feeling deflated. Well _fuck._ There was no point in hiding it now. 

“Are any of you gonna tell me what’s going on?” Lambert drawls, returning to his chair and soaking up his bloody nose with his sleeve.

“Geralt’s getting married.” 

Geralt can tell Eskel wants to smirk from the way the scarred side of his mouth twitches. He manages to remain mostly neutral, but the tone in his voice is on the edge of smugness and Geralt gives him a swift kick beneath the table for it.

“Give me that right now,” Lambert says, making another grab for the paper. 

Eskel lets him, and watches his brothers with amusement as Lambert seizes the letter and Geralt hits his head on the table and mutters a quiet “fuck.”

“As hereby declared by the high council and seven witcher clans,” Lambert reads, “blah blah, boring diplomatic stuff-- something something peace treaty-- _we officially sanction a union between Geralt of Rivia and--_ Oh my god!” Lambert bursts into laughter.

Geralt smacks him on the back of the head. “Fuck you.”

Eskel isn’t bothering to hide his smirk now, but when he looks at Geralt his eyes are sympathetic. 

“Oh _Geralt!”_ Lambert cries amid fits of laughter. “I never took you for the marrying type, but I have to say--” he pauses to laugh some more-- “if I get to see them dress you up in a suit all distinguished like--” he snorts-- “I’m gonna die!”

Geralt grinds his teeth together and looks down at the table, fists clenched.

“And it’s to a _Viscount_ , “Lambert says, nearly wheezing. “Julian Pankratz de Lettenhove! Ooh he sounds _fancy_.”

“Shut up, boy,” Vesemir says, taking the letter from Lambert and putting it back in his pocket. “You’re getting blood on the damn thing.”

“I can’t-- he’s--” Lambert looks at Geralt and breaks down again.

“Don’t make fun of Geralt for this, it’s an important job. It’ll be good for all of us witchers.”

Geralt wants to shrink into his chair and disappear. Instead, he downs the rest of his white gull.

“Why exactly is a marriage contract part of the peace treaty, Vesemir?” Eskel asks.

The older witcher folds his hands on the table. “It was an idea from one of the noble leaders. Marriages can strengthen an alliance like this. They suggested it be with a witcher as a way for us to apologize for the schools getting involved.”

“Yes but why Geralt?”

“Yeah,” Geralt agrees, “why _me?_ ”

Vesemir shrugs. “They wanted it to be someone from a school that remained neutral. We drew straws. The wolves got chosen. Out of us, he’s the best choice.”

Eskel gives him a look that says _fair enough._

“Geralt always was the prettiest,” Lambert adds.

Geralt feels himself deflate further. As annoying as the result is, he has to admit that Vesemir’s reasoning makes sense. The witcher schools are on bad terms with humans to begin with, and their dwindling numbers aren’t doing them any favors. No doubt the humans consider them a threat, an act of this nature is the logical response if they don’t want them trying to burn the remaining schools to the ground.

And the wolves are small in numbers. Many of them have died off, or lost contact with the others. Of the four of them that remain Geralt _is_ the best choice. Vesemir is too old. If they choose Lambert he’ll say something stupid and have the entire continent at war with them in a matter of days.

All things considered, Eskel would actually be the best option-- he’s the most well spoken, the slowest to anger-- but Geralt knows what humans are like.They’re vain and have fragile egos. Human nobles would never accept Eskel with his scars. They would consider it an insult. 

So yeah, Geralt is the only one who’s left. 

_Fuck._

“Would you boys give me some time to talk with Geralt alone?” Vesemir says.

Eskel and Lambert look from him to Geralt, and then back again. Then they nod and quickly collect their things before heading towards the stairs. Eskel stops at the door and gives Geralt a sympathetic look. 

So much for a nice evening of gwent.

Once the footsteps of the other witchers are far enough away to be out of earshot, Vesemir turns to Geralt.

“I assume you’re not particularly happy about the news.”

That was one way of putting it. “Yeah, no shit.”

“I’m...sorry things turned out this way.”

“Thanks,” Geralt says flatly. 

“I understand you must have a lot of...feelings about this.”

Vesemir says it as if feelings are some alien thing. 

And in a way, for witchers they are. Humans have long said that witchers don’t feel, but that’s not entirely true. They were men once, they know what it is to feel sadness, anger, happiness, jealousy. But during the trials you change. They’re taught that feelings are a danger to them. Feelings slow you down, they make you distracted. A witcher that feels too much usually doesn’t live very long. 

So witchers suppress their feelings. They ignore them. 

It’s only decades later that Geralt comes to the conclusion that suppressing your feelings is not always the best choice. He, Eskel, Lambert, and Vesemir-- they’re trying to fix what’s been broken. Over the years they’ve worked together to feel more comfortable with, well, _feeling._

It’s still a bit of a chore to address them though.

“Vesemir,” Geralt says, “I’m not the marrying type. What do they expect me to do? Settle down with the Viscount and start a family? I’m a _witcher.”_

“The contract says nothing about that,” Vesemir replies. “This is just a union. It can be a purely political one if you want. You’ll still be free to walk the path as you would normally.”

“And what about him? I’m supposed to drag some flouncy nobleman along the path with me? He’ll die.”

“That might not be an issue. Apparently the boy’s not human.”

“What is he, an elf?”

“Part fae actually.”

“Oh.” 

“All things considered, It’s not a bad option,” Vesemir continues. “If he’s fae he’ll be tougher than a human would. Probably live as long as we do.”

Geralt shakes his head. “Fae or not, he can still get hurt. I don’t want him to get killed because of me. I don’t want to be the poor boy’s death sentence.” 

He’d heard of it too many times. Humans getting involved with witchers always got hurt in the end. And Geralt had firsthand experience of that in Blaviken. There’s a reason witchers work alone. It’s better that way.

“You could train him so he can take care of himself,” Vesemir reasons. “Bring him to Kaer Morhen if you want.”

“But-- I-- he--”

“Lad. Can you actually think of a good enough excuse to convince the other schools and the noble council not to go through with this?”

Geralt sighs. “No.” 

“Well that’s it then. You leave for Lettenhove in three days.” Vesemir gets up from his chair and turns towards the door. “I’ll give you some time alone to process this.”

“But what if he doesn’t like me?”

There it is, Geralt’s big worry. People hardly ever like him. The only people that ever get to know him either die or grow to despise him. He’s not exactly a people person.

Vesemir snorts. “If that’s the case, then you’ve got nothing to worry about. You’re used to it already.” Then he’s gone.

Geralt sits in the hall in silence, mug empty, gwent deck still waiting for his next game, and leftover food growing cold.

_Well, fuck._

  
  


\-------------------------------------------

  
  


Geralt tries to mull things over, he really does. But things quickly take a turn for the worst when he starts thinking of all the things that could go wrong. 

In the end he decides to simply ignore his thoughts, and go to bed.

When he makes his way upstairs, Eskel is waiting to ambush him by his room. 

The scarred witcher’s arms are crossed over his chest, eyes closed as he leans against the door.

“That went well,” he says.

“Hmmm.” 

In truth it could have gone a lot worse, but Geralt isn’t going to think about that.

Eskel opens one eye. “So what’s your plan? With the human, I mean.”

Geralt massages his temples, and shakes his head. “I have no fucking idea.”

“Ya wanna talk about it?”

Geralt just responds with another “hmmm” and shoves past Eskel to his room. He doesn’t bother to close the door, which Eskel takes as an invitation to follow him inside.

They sit on the bed together, Geralt seated on the edge with his head in his hands and Eskel reclined against the headboard. Eskel doesn’t say anything, he just closes his eyes and leans his head back on the wall, waiting for Geralt to talk when he’s ready. 

Eventually, Geralt speaks. 

“I can’t go through with this. He’s just a boy, Esk. _Fuck,_ he’s only 19, I can’t fuck over his life like this.”

“You didn’t make this choice,” Eskel points out, “it’s not _your_ fault.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that he’s stuck with me. He’ll hate me for it. He’ll hate me.”

“You don’t know that.”

“He’s not going to want a witcher.”

Eskel shrugs. “Maybe he’s into freaky stuff. Some of these nobles are weird.”

Geralt just groans loudly.

Eskel leans over and pokes his arm. “No,” he says, “you’re not doing that.”

“I’m not doing _anything_ , I’m just sitting here.”

“You’re spiraling. You’re thinking so loudly I can practically smell smoke.” His brother smirks and then places a soft hand on his shoulder and adds, “don’t beat yourself up over this.”

“Hmmm.”

Geralt knew what Eskel was doing. He was trying to prevent him from falling into what would surely be a sleepless night of self hatred and anxiety. All of them had been through it because of one thing or another. Geralt knows for a fact that Eskel still stayed up sometimes, wallowing because of his scars. He can hear enough through their shared walls to know that his brothers are just as broken as he is.

Except the fact still remains that if anything happened to Julian because of him, Geralt _would_ beat himself up over it. He’s just getting a head start on everything.

“So when is it?”

Geralt sighs and then says, flatly, “I leave for Lettenhove in three days.”

Eskel looks him over as if he’s considering something. “I could go with you if you want.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow. He knows how much Eskel dislikes being around too many people for too long. Surrounded by nobility the stares and looks he got would be ten times worse. 

“You would do that?”

“For you? Anything, wolf.”

Geralt hums, weighting things over in his mind. “It might be good to have the company.”

“Good,” Eskel says patting his shoulder and getting up from the bed. “We leave in three days then.”

“Hmmm.”

His brother turns to look at him before he leaves, a glint of mischief in his eyes.

“Plus, if they do make you dress up in a suit, I’d be a fool to miss it.”

Geralt throws a pillow at him.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When Eskel is like "Geralt's getting married" I pictured Lambert being like "say more RIghT nOW!" (Insert John Mulaney gif here)


	3. Three Hours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's up my dudes, it ya girl Sesame, back with another chapter when she should be doing schoolwork.
> 
> Beware my Canadian spelling.

Geralt and Eskel leave for Lettenhove three days later, at the crack of dawn. 

Before they leave, Vesemir corners Geralt and reminds him of how to behave and what to do once they get to Lettenhove-- “ _Be as polite as you can be,”_ the old witcher had told him, _“at least while you’re there. Try not to offend anyone and cause any political conflicts or declarations of war.”_ Geralt assumed those things were obvious, but Vesemir had made a point of telling him anyway. 

_“Avoid frightening your betrothed. Buy him a gift on your way there, something nice_ \--” Geralt had been given a pouch of gold for that one. Though what he should buy for a Viscount he has no idea. 

The trip will take two weeks total, with the wedding two days after that. Geralt had taken the past three days to mull over his thoughts about...everything, and begrudgingly concluded that he would accept his situation. But accepting the situation doesn’t mean that he has to like it.

Lambert joins them for the trek down the mountain and the three part ways once they reach the main road, Lambert heading off to begin his walk on the path, while Eskel and Geralt continue on to Lettenhove. 

Geralt feels a little uneasy once Lambert has gone. He won’t miss the seemingly endless string of teasing that his brother has been assailing him with the past few days, but Lambert leaving makes it all feel a little more real.

They stop in a small village just near the base of the mountain where Vesemir had told them a follow up letter would be waiting for Geralt at the inn. Apparently the Earl had sent it there since the mountain pass was uncrossable before the thaw, and no courier would have braved the journey to a keep of witchers anyway. 

The innkeeper gives him a strange look when Geralt comes in and asks for a letter sent from the Earl of Lettenhove, but Geralt brushes it off, and leaves as quickly as he can. 

Chances are he’s going to get a lot of strange looks in the coming days.

He and Eskel gather some supplies for their journey in town, but don’t stick around long. People are always more wary of witchers in small towns, in a city they could blend in a little better, but in a village strangers stuck out like a sore thumb. Geralt waits until he and Eskel have left the village and put some road behind them before he opens the envelope.

Eskel is watching him out of the corner of his eye as he tears the red wax seal on the envelope. Inside is another letter written in elegant penmanship.

Geralt skims through the first part-- it’s addressed to “the witcher” and he can’t tell if it’s meant to be a subtle insult on the Earl’s part or not. It starts off with more political bullshit, lots of names and titles thrown about that Geralt can’t be bothered to read or care about. But towards the end, the Earl has taken the liberty of providing some information on his soon to be husband.

_Julian Pankratz de Lettenhove is a mild tempered man from a well bred family--_ Geralt doesn’t like the way they phrased that, makes his betrothed sound like a horse. Not that there was anything wrong with horses, he loved Roach to death. He gives her a small pat on the shoulder before reading the next line.

_As is expected, Julian will remain reserved and obedient to your wishes--_ alright, Geralt really doesn’t like the way they phrased _that_ either. 

He frowns as he continues the paragraph. Each sentence seems a little more subtly insulting than the last. If Geralt didn’t know any better, he’d say it sounds like they want Julian to be a prized cow that they're selling rather than, you know, a person. 

“What’s it say?” Eskel asks from beside him, noticing the now sour look Geralt is giving the piece of paper.

“It’s about _him._ ” Geralt doesn’t need to elaborate on who the _him_ in question is. All of them had been trying to avoid mentioning Geralt’s impending marriage as much as possible. Julian Pankratz de Lettenhove went from his name to the Viscount, to _him_ in the span of one day.

Geralt pulls Roach up next to Scorpion and hands the letter over to Eskel. His brother’s eyes flick over the paper before he too wears a scow and raises an eyebrow towards Geralt.

“I can’t tell if they think this is what you want to hear, or they just really hate him,” 

“Hmmm.”

Geralt takes the letter back and tucks it into his saddlebag. The two of them ride in silence for the rest of the day. 

  
  


\-----------------------------

  
  


They stop in a large town halfway to Lettenhove and Eskel abandons Geralt in the crowded marketplace in favor of a drink at the tavern. 

He watches his brother disappear into the sea of people with a feeling of jealousy. It would be much easier to sit in the pub and drink ale with Eskel than meander awkwardly around the market stalls and pick out something to give to Julian. 

He passes by each one, the coin pouch that Vesemir gave hanging heavily in his pocket. 

Why the fuck did they think this was a good idea? What was a witcher supposed to know about buying gifts for a Viscount? Fuck all, that’s what. At least if his betrothed was a woman Geralt could have bought jewelry or perfume or some shit that was generic enough to cover all the bases, but with a man? He doesn’t know where to start. He supposes jewelry wasn’t entirely inappropriate, but Geralt has what people would call “shit taste” and he doesn’t want to offend the man by accident. 

Eskel had told him “Get him something thoughtful, Geralt, it’s not that hard,” but every time Geralt tries to think of what fits that category he feels like a fucking idiot. 

A thoughtful gift is something with meaning, right? But Geralt has never even _met_ Julian. Everything he knows about the guy is from the Earl’s letter. He studied music and poetry at Oxenfurt, he’s part fae, he has dark hair and blue eyes-- a description vague enough to be anyone-- and he’s “mild tempered” which is a fact so insisted upon that Geralt has a feeling the opposite is true. 

So he doesn’t have a lot to work with. 

Geralt scans the line of stalls, hoping if he looks at them long enough, he’ll have an epiphany and just _know_ what to get. 

There’s a vendor selling books nearby. He’s a scholar, right? So maybe Geralt can get him a book of poems or something. But he doesn’t want to get Julian something he’s already read. 

Ah fuck, he should have made Eskel stay with him. No doubt the other witcher would be better at this than him. 

He’s just about to give up and head to the tavern so he can beg Eskel to help him when something catches his eye.

There at the blacksmith stand, hung on the back wall, is a lute. 

Julian studied to be a bard, he would know how to play the lute, wouldn’t he? 

Geralt makes a beeline for the stand.

The blacksmith eyes him warily when he approaches, but he continues sharpening the blade in his hands. “Not often we get witchers through these parts,” he says, still focused on his task. “You here to buy? Need your sword sharpened?”

“The lute,” Geralt says, nodding his head towards the back wall, “it yours?”

“It’s m’wife’s. She used to play when she was younger.”

“Any chance she’d be willing to part with it?”

The blacksmith stops sharpening and gives Geralt a suspicious look. “What would a witcher want with a lute?”

“That’s my business.”

The blacksmith shrugs and returns to his sword. “My wife broke her hand a few summers ago and hasn’t been able to play since. Now the old thing just sits there collecting dust. If you have the coin for it, it’s yours.”

Geralt tosses Vesemir’s coin pouch onto the counter. The blacksmith puts his sword to the side and walks up to the counter, taking no time to sift through the gold.

“This is far more than that lute is worth,” he says. 

“Then give me the lute,” Geralt says, “And _that._ ” He points towards the display of weapons. 

The blacksmith raises an eyebrow, then pockets the gold.

  
  


\-----------------------------

  
  


“I expect you to be on your best behaviour today.”

Jaskier’s father circles him on the pedestal where he’s standing and brushes a speck of lint off his shoulder. Jaskier feels like the sound of his voice is underwater. He can’t bring himself to focus on anything-- not since he’d woken up with a pool of dread in his stomach, knowing that today marks the day his life officially ends. 

His father had chosen to wait until Jaskier was summoned by the seamstress for the final fitting of his new doublet and pants that he would wear to greet his betrothed before he approached him. Then he’d cornered him with what was turning out to be a dreadful conversation while Jaskier was immobilized by the seamstress sticking pins on him for last minute alterations. 

“You will be respectful.”

His father stops in front of him, gaze searching Jaskier’s face for any sign of disobedience. Jaskier keeps his eyes down and his mouth pressed into a firm line, knowing that if he replies, he’ll say something he’ll regret. His composure is broken when the seamstress pricks his skin with a needle.

He lets out a quiet hiss, and the seamstress quickly lowers her head, muttering a quiet apology. 

“You will remain quiet and reserved when in the presence of our guest,” his father continues, “none of that fluttering nonsense you babble about. I will not have you make a fool out of me and this family more than you already have.”

Jaskier doesn’t tell him that he wishes he could make a fool of the family more often.

He places a hand under Jaskier’s chin and tilts his head upwards so that he’s forced to look his father in the eye. Jaskier fights the urge to flinch at the contact.

“And you will be _obedient._ ” The _or else_ is left unspoken, but Jaskier knows from the warning tone in his father’s voice that it is intended to be there. 

Jaskier feels his jaw tighten. “Is that an order?” he asks. He keeps his voice as calm as he can, but when he speaks it sounds hollow.

“ _Does it need to be?”_

The room falls silent. The seamstress pauses her ministrations. Jaskier’s maid who had been standing at the ready to assist if needed suddenly finds herself very interested in a line of dust on the nearby bookshelf. It’s an unspoken thing amongst the house staff-- that they avoid all notice of his plight.

Jaskier doesn’t know if his father would be willing to go as far as using his true name in front of everyone once his betrothed arrives, but given that he has no issues with the housekeepers, he wouldn’t put it past him. 

He swallows thickly, feeling like someone has put a hand over his throat and shakes his head. “No, father.”

His father smiles coldly. “I’m glad we are in agreement.” He then turns his attention to the seamstress. “How long will this take to finish?”

The stout woman looks up somewhat nervously. “The alterations should be done in an hour or two, Sir.”

“Good.” He brushes a finger down the silky fabric of Jaskier’s sleeve, and Jaskier freezes. “This fabric was a good choice for you, Julian. The color suits your complexion.” 

Jaskier gives a small nod because there’s no point in disagreeing--not that he would, the outfit his father had commissioned for him is actually quite lovely. The fabric of the doublet’s body is made from a deep red velvet, that’s accented with creamy white pinstripes along the hem and seams, embroidered with tiny freshwater pearls. The shoulder tabs end in a series of round flaps, layered to look almost like feathers, and the sleeves are a thin silk, made from more of that cream color. He would be very pleased to have the outfit if not for the reason it was made.

His father circles him again so that he can take in every aspect of Jaskier’s appearance from head to toe. Jaskier tries his best not to squirm under his gaze and get accidentally pricked by another needle. He pauses, turning to the maid. “Is there any way you can style his hair to cover more of his ears?”

“I’m afraid that’s the best we could get, My Lord.”

His father hums and raises an eyebrow, clearly not satisfied by the response he’s been given. “Very well.”

He gives Jaskier a last once-over before turning to the door. “I’ll see you in the great hall at three. Don’t be late.” And with that he’s gone.

Jaskier finishes up with the fitting in silence, lucky to remain unstabbed for the remaining duration.

It’s nearly noon when he’s finally set free from the parlor and allowed to return to his rooms so he can “prepare,” as the maid said. Jaskier doesn’t know what the fuck that is supposed to mean. As if he’s some frittering school girl that has to primp herself before her oh so dashing suitor arrives. Well Jaskier doesn't have a suitor. He has a fucking witcher.

He wishes he could sing. He needs some way to ease his tension, set his thoughts straight. Singing always was an outlet for Jaskier to express what he’s feeling. During his time at Oxenfurt the “no singing” command didn’t apply, and he had become quite dependent on it as a coping mechanism when upset. Now back home, humming just doesn’t cut it.

He struggles to eat some food that is delivered to his room, but he’s barely able to get anything down without feeling like he’s going to throw up. He hadn’t been able to eat breakfast that morning either.

_A witcher._ Jaskier is about to be married to a witcher. A mutant. Someone who is dangerous enough to send an entire hoard of men running for the hills, someone who is feared and hated by everyone they come in contact with. 

_Well,_ Jaskier thinks with a scowl, _he and Geralt have something in common already._

He’s never understood why people didn’t like witchers. Sure some of the stories he’s heard are horrifying, but witchers provide a necessary service, and are thus acceptable in Jaskier’s book. But still, the thought of being married to one-- even just being _close_ to one-- well, terrifies him.

Hopefully Geralt of Rivia won’t be so bad. 

Welp, looks like Jaskier has three hours left before he finds out. Three, measly hours, before his life becomes more of a nightmare than it already is.

  
  


\--------------------------------

  
  


The entire household staff is assembled in the great hall for the witcher’s arrival. In some ways it looks like a show of respect. In others it looks like his father has assembled an army to threaten him.

Jaskier stands next to his father on top of the dais, wearing his new clothes and positively seething. His fear about this whole situation quickly morphed into a white hot hatred as each remaining hour of Jaskier’s freedom ticked away on his bedroom clock. 

He despises the curl of his father’s lips when he’d seen that Jaskier had shown up on time. It’s the most he’s ever gotten to a smile or look of endearment from the man-- at least since he reached an age where he was able to form his own opinions. 

He has to bite his tongue when his father embraces him in front of everyone in the room like he’s his beloved son and not some unwanted halfbreed bastard.

This is normally the time when a parent would reassure their child that everything is going to be alright. _It’s just marriage, not the end of the world. It doesn’t matter if you don’t love them, you’ll grow fond of each other in the end._ But Jaskier doesn’t get those words. All he gets is a thorough inspection from head to toe and a “stand up straight.”

His jaw is clenched so tight it almost hurts. 

In the storybooks it’s not uncommon for the fae to curse people who have done them wrong. If Jaskier knew how to curse his father, he would.

The doorman approaches his father and whispers something to him. Jaskier can’t quite make it out, but he knows that it means _he’s_ arrived.

He hates this. He hates the peace treaty and the wedding and his father and his name. Hates _him._

_He hates him._

Jaskier has already decided. It doesn’t matter that he hasn’t met his betrothed, Jaskier hates him. 

He hates what he represents. 

Jaskier despises Geralt of Rivia. Because he knows-- he just _knows_ that Geralt will be--”

The doors to the main hall swing open.

_Incredibly hot._

_…_

_...Fuck._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Insert squidward saying "oh no, he's hot!" here.
> 
> It was very difficult not give the blacksmith skyrim npc dialogue. "looking to protect yourself or deal some damage?"
> 
> If anyone is curious as to what Jaskier's outfit looks like I was imagining something along the lines of this: https://i.pinimg.com/564x/9c/2a/5a/9c2a5aa59b66c03661ff0cce2f5744b5.jpg


	4. An Incredibly Attractive Inconvenience

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit guys I did not expect such an overwhelming positive response to this. I don't think I've had so much of a reaction to any art i've posted ever. Hot damn. Thank you all for you comments and kudos <3.
> 
> So this chapter is a bit of a thicc boi, but that's good cause now y'all have more to read.

_Fuck._

It’s two witchers that step into the great hall instead of the single one that was expected, but the second lingers by the door while the other makes determined strides in Jaskier’s direction.

_Oh Fuck._

The man’s presence is intoxicating, all rugged and powerful and...witchery? Is that a word? Fuck it, now it is and Jaskier’s using it. 

He looks like some ethereal being, dressed from head to toe in black leather, with moon white hair and skin almost pale enough to match. And his _eyes_ . For the love of all that is holy, are they _gold?_ Jaskier’s mouth goes dry. That man has arms like fucking tree trunks-- and he should probably be scared-- but all he can think of is how the witcher could use those arms to snap him like a twig. 

_Why is the thought of that so attractive?_

And _holy fuck_ as Geralt nears the dais-- it would have to be Geralt because why else would he be approaching-- Jaskier can practically _feel_ the weight of his steps. 

This has got to be the most gorgeous man he’s ever seen. 

He’s nearly quaking in his little heeled boots.

_No._ No, shut up. _Stupid Jaskier._

_You hate him, remember?_

You’re being forced to marry this guy and you hate him. ( _And he’s gorgeous_.) You hate him, you already decided. (Look at those hands, they’re big enough to practically fit around your entire waist) No he’s a fucking witcher, stop it. 

Before Jaskier knows what’s happening Geralt is standing by the dais and he can finally see him up close and his knees go _weak._

Yes. Handsome, terrifying, stunning, powerful. Even beautiful would be a good word.

He’s brought back to reality when his father steps forward and walks down the stairs of the dais, eyeing the witcher with all the terrible scrutiny a single look can muster. 

“Geralt of Rivia, I presume?” His father drawls.

Geralt’s eyes flick from his father to Jaskier and he gives a curt nod. He makes no move to kneel or bow as he addresses the Earl, instead standing with his head held high as he replies, “Yes. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, my Lord.”

_Sweet Melitele’s tits that_ voice! Good _god_ , Jaskier can feel it rumble through every fiber of his being.

His father hums and stares at Geralt as if waiting for him to bow. When he doesn't, he replies, “yes, a pleasure,” then waves a hand in Jaskier’s direction, “I welcome you to Lettenhove, witcher. Please, allow me to introduce you to my son, Julian.”

Geralt turns to give his full attention to Jaskier and Jaskier catches a glimpse of his father’s jaw flexing when the witcher gives the slightest bow of his head to _him_.

He...suddenly has to try very hard to stop himself from swooning.

_Good looks_ and _public disrespect of his father? What a catch._

No, shut up, Jaskier.

“It is an honor to finally meet you,” Geralt says, a hint of a smile on his lips.

Jaskier just looks at him dumbfounded, eyes trailing from his lips to that jawline that can cut through glass to the way that his hair tumbles over his shoulder looking like a waterfall of starlight against black armor. 

Jaskier’s father clears his throat loudly and Jaskier nearly jumps. He looks around the room. Everyone is staring at him. 

Right. Yes. He’s supposed to respond. He can do that. Except he can’t seem to form words. Why can’t he remember any words?

_“Julian.”_

Jaskier blinks. “Uh, yes. You too,” he squeaks out. 

_Come on, Jaskier, pull yourself together._

He throws all his focus into keeping himself steady and moving his feet forwards until he’s standing right in front of Geralt. Then he plasters a smile on his face and offers Geralt a hand which the witcher grips firmly.

Everyone stands there for a moment of painful silence that makes Jaskier want to claw his eyes out until Geralt breaks it by saying, “I...brought you something.” 

He reaches into his cloak to reveal a wrapped package and thrusts it in Jaskier’s direction. 

The other witcher is watching him closely from the door, as if waiting to see his reaction. 

Jaskier takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself, and then takes the package from Geralt, carefully peeling away the paper wrapping. Inside is a lute made from a dark coloured wood, and etched with a series of flowering vines that swirl around the body of the instrument, growing fainter as they reach the light wood of the neck. 

“It’s a courting gift,” Geralt says. “For you. I carved the pattern myself.”

Jaskier runs his fingers across the etching in wonder.

“I know it’s not much but--”

“It’s _beautiful,”_ Jaskier whispers.

Something shifts in Geralt’s face at his words and Jaskier can see his shoulders relax ever so slightly-- in a blink and you’ll miss it kind of way. 

It’s customary for courting gifts to be exchanged between a couple before their wedding, usually as a show of wealth or a way to prove that you could provide for one another. Jaskier never expected Geralt to get him anything-- he was a witcher, after all, not some high class lord-- but he’s…touched by the gesture. The sincerity of actually using his hands to carve the design, it catches him completely off guard. 

He almost feels bad that he has nothing to give Geralt in return. Or maybe his father had something in mind and just didn’t trust Jaskier to give it himself. Or he’s saving it for the wedding. That’s probably the case.

“Thank you,” Jaskier tells him, and he means it. 

His father is staring at the lute in Jaskier’s hands with a look that’s less than impressed, but that’s neither here nor there. He probably disproves the fact that a lute enables Jaskier’s proclivity for music rather than the actual quality of the gift. 

“I understand you studied to be a bard,” Geralt says, “though I didn’t know if you played the lute or not.”

“As a matter of fact, it’s my go-to instrument,” Jaskier replies with a wink.

Geralt looks somewhat stunned at the action and Jaskier immediately curses himself.

_A_ wink? _What the fuck is wrong with you? This is hardly the time for that!_ _Besides, you hate him, remember?_

“Yes, Julian is well versed in all manner of instruments,” his father interjects, “but I’m afraid his time studying has come to an end. He is now focusing on more important duties. You needn't worry about it being an issue.”

“Hmmm.” Something flashes in Geralt’s eyes but Jaskier can’t make out exactly what. 

“But enough talk for now,” his father says, clapping his hands together. “They’ll be plenty of that when we discuss the wedding. You must be tired from the journey, Julian will show you and your...er-- companion to the east wing where you’ll be staying.” He nods to Jaskier. “Julian?”

“Uh, right.” Jaskier says, as the focus of _both_ witchers now falls on him. “I suppose you can follow me then.” He heads towards a door off to the side of the room. The witchers follow him with quick strides.

Once they’re safely in the hall, with the heavy door closed behind them, Jaskier lets out a sigh of relief. 

Oh thank the gods that’s over. 

The second witcher breathes a laugh and Jaskier’s head immediately snaps to him. _Oh shit did he just say that out loud?_

He looks over at Geralt, whose mouth is tugged into the tiniest smirk. _Oh he really_ did _say that out loud._ And for a moment Jaskier’s anxiety spikes, but Geralt just raises an eyebrow, unbothered, and asks “would you be insulted if I said I feel the same?”

Jaskier’s sudden tension deflates like a balloon. “Not at all.”

And _oh_ Jaskier hadn’t been expecting that response but he is so happy that he didn’t just immediately insult his betrothed, because Geralt seems kind of okay actually, even if he _has_ decided to hate him. But he can’t let his guard down, no matter how okay Geralt comes across. At least for now.

Geralt gestures to the witcher standing beside him. “This is my brother, Eskel, by the way. I didn’t get a chance to introduce him back there.”

“Hello, Eskel,” Jaskier says, politely.

The witcher offers him a small smile which Jaskier returns. Eskel is built like Geralt, a little broader in the shoulders, with dark hair and a series of jagged scars on one side of his face, but those don’t stop him from also being incredibly hot. Regardless, Jaskier averts his eyes from the scars when he speaks to him-- he knows how it feels when people stare.

“We weren’t sure how people would react to my presence,” Eskel explains. “Didn’t want to alarm you by having _two_ witchers cornering you up there.”

“Yes that was a good call,” Jaskier replies. “Uh, no offense.”

The scarred witcher holds up his hands as if to say _none taken_ and leaves it at that. 

Jaskier’s father was already suspicious enough as it was towards the presence of a witcher in their household-- Geralt would never have been allowed to set foot in the door if not for the circumstances. One witcher was enough. His assembly of guards and household staff in the great hall said all it needed to about his feelings, and Jaskier had taken notice that Geralt and Eskel seem to reciprocate that distrust by the four swords and six-- no seven-- knives that they have between them. 

And yet, Jaskier remains alone in the hallway with not one, but _two_ witchers armed to the teeth and doesn’t feel as scared as he should be. They are intimidating, sure, and Jaskier _knows_ that the two of them could do whatever they wanted to him and he’d be powerless to stop it, but what else is new? And after the reveal of Geralt’s apparent skill for woodworking and Eskel's cute little smile, Jaskier can’t see them as the mutant killing machines he’s been told that they are.

“You know,” Jaskier says, leaning in a little bit closer to get a good look at their faces. “For brothers, the two of you actually don’t look very alike. Well, except for the eyes.”

“We’re not actually related,” Eskel says. “But us wolves all think of each other as family in a sense.”

“Wolves?”

Geralt’s hand goes to the medallion around his neck that has slipped Jaskier’s notice while he was distracted by...everything else about him. Eskel is wearing one that matches it exactly. “We’re from the School of the Wolf,” Geralt tells him. “It’s easier to just say wolves.”

“Ah, I see...” He trails off and finds the two other men staring at him. Pulling himself away from those golden eyes, Jaskier turns down the hall before the three of them can fall into another awkward silence and adds, “Here, let me show you to your rooms.”

The two witchers don’t waste any time falling into step behind him and Jaskier can almost feel them staring at the back of his head as he walks. 

He wants to say something to Geralt but he’s not sure what. Maybe _hey I’m sorry my dad is a dick and didn’t appreciate your thoughtful gift, I thought it was lovely._ Or perhaps _wow, you’re actually the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen, I don’t want to marry you, but now I might be reconsidering based on your looks alone._

Neither of those are appropriate, especially not the second one. So Jaskier just walks in silence until they reach the room, and stops in front of the door to say, “well, here it is.” His hands trail down to fiddle with the hem of his shirt. “I’m afraid we only have one room prepared since we were only expecting Geralt, but I can ask the housestaff to--”

Geralt cuts him off, raising a hand. “One room is fine.”

“Are you sure, cause it’s no big deal to--”

“We don’t mind sharing,” Geralt says, firmly.

“Oh, alright then.” Jaskier feels his face fall and steps off to the side so Geralt and Eskel can get to the door. “I’ll have the servants bring up your things.”

“This is actually most of it,” Eskel says.

“Really? Okay, I suppose I’ll leave you two to get settled then.” Jaskier turns to leave but Geralt’s hand on his arm stops him. He can’t help but jump at the contact and immediately feels shitty when Geralt’s face makes a look as though he’d slapped him.

The witcher quickly releases his arm and takes a step back. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, uh…”

“It’s fine,” Jaskier squeaks out. Heat rushes to his cheeks as his voice cracks pathetically on the second word.

“I just…” Geralt's eyes flicker to the wall as if he can’t bring himself to meet Jaskier’s gaze. “Thank you, Julian.”

It somehow feels wrong to hear that name coming from Geralt’s lips but he quickly brushes the feeling away and nods. “You’re welcome.”

“You can...leave now, if you want.”

_Oh._ “Right.” Jaskier turns back down the hall faster than he’d intended, but his feet seem to have a will of their own, and that will is to get the hell out of there as soon as possible. 

He spares one last glance over his shoulder to look at Geralt.

_Mmm, yeah. Still gorgeous._

He is so royally fucked.

\-----------------------------

  
  


It’s not until dinner that night that Jaskier regains reason. 

He sits at the table across from his father, who is very intently telling him about who will be attending the wedding. His step mother sits in the chair beside his father, staring into her soup bowl and fiddling with the edge of her napkin, pausing every moment to offer a “yes, dear” or “sounds lovely.” She hadn’t been there to meet Geralt earlier. The woman suffers from a prolonged illness and rarely leaves their quarters except for meals. 

That’s fine by Jaskier, they never talked much anyway.

Each sentence out of his father’s mouth reminds him how much he hates everything, and hammers rational thought back into Jaskier’s thick skull. 

So Geralt being attractive had caught him off guard. Jaskier can admit that. He’s a weak man when it comes to beautiful people, what can he say? He won’t let it happen again. 

He’s losing what little freedom he has left, not to mention potentially his life depending on how things go. He can’t forget that fact.

Jaskier doesn’t _know_ Geralt. He does not want to know him. In fact, if given the choice he would have nothing to do with him. And sure, maybe that’s not entirely Geralt’s fault but that doesn’t mean Jaskier is going to all of a sudden take this marriage lying down.

Jaskier has always been good at reading people. He knew that he and his favourite professor at Oxenfurt would get along splendidly from a single lecture. He knew when the barmaid at the tavern down the road was trying to subtly flirt with him within seconds. He knew that his fellow student, Valdo Marx was a total asshat before the man had even spoken to him. But with Geralt, he’s not so sure. Jaskier’s “asshole alarm” doesn’t go off at the sight of him-- which is a good sign, thank the gods-- but Jaskier still can’t read him.

He doesn’t know what to think. He doesn’t know what Geralt _is._

Scary perhaps. Jaskier can _feel_ the power radiating off of him, and he almost wonders if that’s some effect of his fae ancestry, to be able to sense it. Geralt is intimidating, he’s scary, but his presence isn’t threatening. At least not in the literal sense, in a figurative one Jaskier hates him for existing-- but that’s besides the point. 

Geralt is something of a wild card. Jaskier can’t read his intention, and that could prove to be disastrous if he can’t play his own hand carefully.

  
  


\-------------------------------

  
  


Geralt paces back and forth in their shared room and groans, dragging a hand down his face. “It hasn’t even been a day, and I’ve already fucked things up.”

“You just spooked him, is all,” Eskel says calmly from where he’s rifling through his bags, trying to find something more comfortable than his armor to wear. “I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“I _scare_ him, Eskel, you can smell the fear coming off him just as well as I can.” He tugs a had through his hair roughly, trying to let something, anything, keep him from panicking.

“So he’s a little nervous, you’re a witcher, that’s normal.”

“Yes but when I scare people on a contract I don’t usually _have to marry them after.”_

Eskel hums thoughtfully, and pulls a loose shirt from the mess of his bag, holding it up in triumph. “He liked your gift, that’s gotta count for something.”

“Hmmm.” 

“When are you planning to give him the other one?”

“I’m waiting until we’re on the road.” Geralt says, unbuckling his armor and dumping each piece next to Eskel's bag as he removes it. “I don’t think that one will go over too well with his family.”

“Fair enough.”

The two witchers make quick work of settling in-- or as much as they can in a place like this with Geralt nearly climbing the walls. 

After a few hours a servant arrives with dinner and the remaining things from their saddlebags, and informs Geralt that he will meet with the Earl in the morning. They then give a strange look to Geralt and an even stranger one to Eskel before they depart without another word.

When Geralt finally tries to get some sleep for the night, the bed is too soft. Used to sleeping on the forest floor with nothing but a bedroll and a few furs, the plush mattress and mess of pillows feel like they’re trying to swallow him whole. 

Eskel, much to Geralt's annoyance, has no issue with their sleeping accommodations and is snoring softly before long, whilst Geralt is left tossing and turning.

He can’t help but feel out of his element here, like he’s being caged. The rooms of the Earl’s manor are large and spacious, yet the walls feel like they’re closing in on him. Geralt doesn’t belong here. Velvet carpets, intricate wallpaper, balconies that overlook gardens with little fountains, these things aren't meant for him. His life is supposed to be money and monsters, when did that all change?

Eventually he can’t handle it anymore and goes to meditate on the floor.

When that doesn’t help, and he still feels like scratching at the walls, Geralt knows he needs to get _out._

He looks to the door. In the maze of the manor he has no idea what leads where, and he knows anyone who sees a witcher wandering the halls would have a heart attack at the sight of him. So Geralt does the sensible thing and climbs down from the balcony. It’s easy with his witcher instincts to hop over the railing, scale the trellis and deposit himself on the ground; and the physical activity helps.

Once his feet meet grass, he immediately feels the tension in his gut ease. 

The manor gardens are expansive, full of topiary bushes cut into the shapes of animals, twisting cobblestone walkways and thousands of sweet smelling flowers, the scent of which hits Geralt like a ton of bricks. He walks around to the far side of the house where there's more topiary garden and less flowers, and plops himself down on a stone bench, looking up at the sky.

It’s a nice night. The sky isn’t clear, but the clouds have parted just enough for him to get a view of the waxing moon and a splattering of stars. The early spring air is cool, but welcomed, and Geralt closes his eyes briefly as the wind brushes across his skin.

For a moment he considers sleeping in the garden, but stamps that idea out of his head quickly. That would not set the good impression that Vesemir had wanted. _Good impression be damned,_ Geralt thinks. He’s a witcher, not some chivalrous knight. They can’t expect him to just show up and automatically fall into their routine.

The sound of footsteps behind him brings Geralt out of his thoughts. 

He’s on his feet and grabbing someone by the front of the shirt in a heartbeat, the knife he keeps strapped to his leg gripped at the ready.

It’s instinct, really, an occupational hazard, but that doesn’t stop Geralt from regretting his entire life’s existence when he meets Julian’s terrified eyes.

Oh fuck. _Oh shit. No, no, no, no, no._

He all but pushes himself away from the boy and stumbles backwards, heart racing. _Oh fuck no._ If Geralt hadn’t fucked things up before, he sure as hell has now.

He needs to say something, to apologize, to do anything, but all that comes out when he opens his mouth is “oh, it’s you.”

Julian gapes at him and makes a choked noise. 

_Good job, Geralt, you scared him to death._

The bard sputters for a moment and when he’s finally over the initial shock and able to find words he cries, “What were you expecting, _a fucking vampire?_ This is a garden not a crypt!” 

Geralt stares at him in stunned silence. He had been expecting the other man to scream, run away, maybe even shed a tear-- do all the things that people normally did when Geralt reminded them of what he was-- not _yell at him._

His heart sinks as Julian steps closer to him, eyes squinting as he tries to make out the witcher’s form in the darkness. “Wha-- is--is that a _knife?”_ he squawks, jumping back, “were you going to _stab_ me?”

Geralt sheaths the blade and silently curses himself and every god he knows. “ _No._ It was a reflex. I don’t like it when people sneak up on me.” 

“Oh well _excuse me_ for taking a walk through my own garden.” Julian waves his arms around wildly as he speaks and points an accusatory finger at Geralt. “I’m just trying to clear my head, and you're out here stealing my spot _and_ trying to stab me!”

His spot? He follows the other man’s gaze to the stone bench. “Oh.” 

_“Oh?_ That’s the best you can come up with?”

Julian is either very stupid or has one hell of a pair to be yelling at a witcher. Geralt has been screamed at plenty of times before, but aside from other witchers and Yennefer, Julian’s the first normal person to do it. 

And yet...he somehow finds it endearing?

Usually people are too scared to confront him-- not that Geralt would ever do anything about it, it’s easier to just walk away than get upset every time someone spits at you and calls you a mutant as you pass.

“I can leave if you want me to,” Geralt says, quietly.

Julian just frowns at him, hands clenched at his sides, but says nothing.

If possible, Geralt’s heart sinks lower. Of course Julian doesn’t want him here. He’s just too polite to say it. And he’d just grabbed him out of nowhere and held a knife to his gut. Oh he really fucked up big time.

Geralt turns back in the direction of his balcony.

“Geralt, wait.”

He does, and tips his head to where Julian is standing, holding out a hand as if to grab him. 

“You can-- you can stay...if you want to.” He sits down on the bench and pats the spot beside him. “We can share.”

Geralt hesitates, leaving would be the smart thing to do, before he can make things worse, but Julian is staring at him with a look so earnest he can’t help but sit down as well.

Julian scoots himself to the side in order to accommodate Geralt’s form and glances at him nervously, kicking up the grass beneath his feet, and Geralt is at a loss for what to do. A few minutes pass in silence, with Julian staring straight ahead blankly, and Geralt studying a blade of grass beside his boot. He wills himself to take deep breaths, in, out. in and out, until his heart slows back to it’s normal rate. 

Finally, Geralt forces himself to say something. “Julian I--”

“Jaskier.”

“Uh, what?”

“I prefer to be called Jaskier,” the other man says, and Geralt looks at him dumbly.

“Like a buttercup?”

He nods.

“Well alright then, _Jaskier_. I’m sorry I tried to stab you.”

“Oh that’s okay. It was just an accident, right? One of your witchery instincts?” He breathes a laugh when Geralt gives him an odd look and something in his face softens “You’re forgiven. Though I’d appreciate it if you don’t try it again in the future.” 

Well Geralt has no idea how to respond to that. Luckily he doesn’t have to because after a minute Jaskier adds, “What _are_ you doing out here anyway?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Yeah, me neither.” Jaskier’s eyes trail to the ground. “That seems to be the case a lot these days.”

“Hmmm.” 

Geralt is not good with words-- never has been-- yet he finds himself burning with the urge to ask the man beside him a hundred questions. Something about him is different. Jaskier should be scared of Geralt, especially after what just happened-- and he is, Geralt can smell the underlying scent of fear coming off him in waves-- but it’s different from the usual in a way that he can’t quite place. Because Jaskier’s heart is beating so fast it could come out of his chest, but he invites Geralt to sit next to him anyway and laughs about it. Because Geralt can see the fear in his eyes, but something else is there too, like a fire flickering beneath the skin just waiting to get out.

And Geralt realizes that maybe that _something_ is not that Jaskier is different, but the fact that when Geralt looks at him he sees a little bit of himself. The two of them come from entirely different worlds but both of them know what it’s like to be an outcast. And Geralt’s been spending all this time beating himself up and agonizing over this marriage, and the only other person who truly understands what he’s going through is right there. And though he’ll never admit it out loud, Geralt is terrified. 

After a time, a quiet mumble brings Geralt's attention back to Jaskier and he finds round blue eyes watching him. The boy wets his lips, words on the edge of his tongue.

Geralt raises an eyebrow in question.

“Thank you, Geralt.”

“For...nearly stabbing you?”

Jaskier laughs, this time not a quick breath, but an actual genuine laugh. “No, for being here. On this bench.” 

“You invited me,” Geralt replies tentatively.

“I did. And you stayed.”

Geralt pauses for a moment, looking at the illuminated spot where the moon is being smothered by fluffy clouds. “You’re scared of me,” he says. It’s not a question.

“Yes,” Jaskier breathes.

“Then _why?_ Why are you thanking me?”

Jaskier trails his hands up and down his thighs-- an action Geralt has seen Lambert make a few times when he’s deep in thought. “Because I was coming out here for what was going to be another night of crying myself hoarse and digging my nails into my hands so hard they bleed, and then I bump into you, and you grab me, and you have a knife, and it’s all so bizarre that I’m pulled out of it.”

Geralt’s face must look confused because Jaskier huffs slightly when he looks at him and says, “That doesn’t make much sense, does it?”

“Not really,” Geralt admits.

“I’m going to be upfront with you, Geralt,” Jaskier says. “I don’t know what to think...about...you. I _don’t…_ ” He trails off, looking back at his feet. His words sound choked, like for some reason he can’t bring himself to say them. The next sentence is slow and Geralt can tell Jaskier is choosing his words carefully. “I feel like I’m not in control of my life.” 

“I’ve never been in control of my life,” Geralt says, bluntly.

Jaskier huffs another laugh and gives him a small smile. “No, I guess a witcher doesn’t choose that, does he?”

Geralt shrugs. “They ask. Before you undergo the trials, but it’s not much of a choice. Most of us don’t have other options.”

“And now?”

“Now I walk the path and do what I was made for. Until one day I get slow and die.”

“That’s…”

“Depressing,” Geralt finishes.

“I was going to say optional. You don’t have to do that, you can just leave. Who’s stopping you?”

Geralt doesn’t answer. Instead he says, “I could say the same thing to you.”

Jaskier shifts in his seat. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow, and it’s not something he would usually do, but he presses Jaskier anyway, because he needs to know for sure. “I thought you were being upfront with me,” he says. “You don’t want this,” _you don’t want me_ , “You could just pick up and leave it all behind. Who’s stopping you?”

Blue eyes widen and suddenly Jaskier is standing and stepping away from him, head shaking. 

_“Julian_ is.”

And Geralt stares at him, mouth agape, but Jaskier is gone before he can ask what that means.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone: *yells at Geralt*
> 
> Geralt: you better stop that shit right now or else I'm gonna fall in love with you.


	5. Intertwine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Featuring best girl, Roach, and revealing my dark past as a horse girl.

The last time Geralt felt as though someone was watching him it hadn’t ended well. 

It was a few years ago, a mage had decided to try and have Geralt killed and hired a group of assassins to do the job. Why the mage wanted him dead, Geralt never found out for sure-- he pissed off powerful people enough of the time for it to be somewhat of a common occurrence-- but it had turned out to be more annoying than a cause for concern. Things were trying to kill Geralt nearly every day after all. 

He noticed the first man immediately whilst sitting at the back of a tavern. A witcher’s senses are far too keen for him to have not. And though a group of men trying to gut him in the alley behind the tavern wasn’t the biggest inconvenience, having to kill them without the townsfolk noticing was. In the end it didn’t matter that the men were there to kill him (or try more like it), all the people saw was Geralt violently massacring eight men in a back alley. It was enough for them to run him out of town and for Geralt to never bother going back. 

So yes, last time did not go well. This time however, the _someone_ watching Geralt is significantly less threatening in the “I’m going to kill you” department and leaning more towards the “I’m going to tear you apart mentally” category. They are also infinitely prettier. 

Geralt wakes up that morning with tense muscles and an aching headache. Eskel, the bastard, had slept great and was actually in such a good mood it was bordering on annoying. Geralt’s time outside did eventually help with the feeling of being trapped in the walls of the manor, but it also replaced those thoughts with thoughts of Jaskier and he was left staring at the ceiling for most of the night.

When he’s summoned for breakfast, Jaskier is lingering down the hall and staring at him, but disappears once Eskel emerges from their shared room behind him. At first Geralt thought it was a bit odd, but maybe Jaskier had just been waiting to talk to him alone and Eskel’s presence scared him away. 

Geralt wants to talk to him too, he finds. As awkward as everything is, Geralt wants to get to know Jaskier in some capacity before the wedding or things will just get a thousand times worse. And while he has his apprehensions about marrying a viscount-- or anyone for that matter-- he has to admit, Jaskier is...intriguing. Last night had been a small start, and now Geralt is burning with even more questions, but he doesn’t want to scare the man away too soon. So instead he waits for Jaskier to come to him.

But Jaskier, well, Jaskier is acting weird.

The Earl doesn’t join them for breakfast which is a small relief, since Geralt rightfully detests dealing with nobles longer than necessary, their pompous attitudes often being unbearable. (Of course Jaskier is the exception, Geralt has had one and a half conversations with the man and that condescending air was nowhere to be found) The table in the dining room is ridiculously large and can seat thirty people. Various foods are laid out on glass platters; warm bread, boiled eggs, little smoked sausages, shaved ham, tomato slices and an arrangement of fruit. Geralt and Eskel situate themselves at the very end of the table and fill their plates. 

Geralt picks at his food sleepily, not caring what he puts on his plate or in his mouth and tries to pay at least some attention to what his brother is telling him about the book he’s been reading.

“It really is fascinating, Geralt, the way that the same stories and folklore differ depending on location, I think you’d enjoy it.”

Geralt responds with a halfhearted “hmmm” and takes a sip from his cup, eyes glancing every other minute to the door. It’s not that he’s not interested in what Eskel is saying, a conversation with him is usually enjoyable, and Geralt probably _would_ like the book, but he has too much on his mind to focus. Eskel doesn't seem to mind Geralt’s attention being elsewhere though and just continues talking as if nothing is out of the ordinary. 

His brothers have this way of responding when Geralt is in one of his “moods” as Lambert calls them. Lambert will poke him in the ribs or start talking about increasingly outlandish and made up things until something draws Geralt’s attention enough to snap him out of it. Eskel’s approach is more gentle, he’ll just sit quietly next to him or find harmless things to talk about until Geralt comes around himself. He knows Geralt is not really listening, but talking anyway helps him have a tether to pull himself out once he’s ready.

“I can lend it to you when I’m done if you want,” Eskel tells him.

Geralt gives another “hmmm”, now entirely focused on the door as Jaskier slips into the room. Eskel trails off for a moment, raising an eyebrow at Geralt who gives Jaskier a little wave. Jaskier nods in acknowledgement, and gives Geralt the tiniest smile before sitting at the opposite end of the table, as far away as possible. Eskel gives him an odd look, then turns his focus to arranging tomatoes and sliced ham on a piece of bread.

Geralt tries not to take Jaskier deliberately sitting on the other side of the room personally. The man probably just wants to eat his breakfast in peace without thinking about the marriage. Geralt can relate to that. And yet, as he forces his gaze to his own plate, out of the corner of his eye he can see Jaskier glancing over at him every now and then. 

Jaskier’s not...mad at him, right?

“Eskel?” Geralt asks.

“Hmmm?” 

“That book of yours have anything in it about fae?”

The other witcher hums thoughtfully and takes another bit of bread. “Nothing you don’t already know.”

“He’s watching me.”

Eskel shrugs. “Maybe he thinks you’re pretty.”

_“Eskel.”_

Geralt’s will breaks and he sneaks an actual glance over to Jaskier. Their eyes meet for a brief second and Jaskier turns his head away.

“Gods above,” Eskel mutters, wrapping the remains of his food up in a napkin and rising from his chair. “This is worse than the time Vesemir made me help out with the trainees. It’s like watching a pair of schoolchildren. I think I’ll finish breakfast in our room.”

“Wait, no, Eskel, don’t _leave me,_ ” Geralt hisses.

“Sorry, wolf,” he replies in a voice that is not at all sorry, “I’m just here for moral support. Dealing with the nobles is your problem.” Geralt lets out a tired groan and slumps in his chair as Eskel gives him a light pat on the back, looking from him to Jaskier. “Just talk to him, you big oaf.”

Geralt watches Eskel leave, pretending he can’t feel Jaskier’s gaze across the room and finishes his breakfast in silence.

  
  


\-----------------------------------

  
  


After breakfast a servant escorts Geralt to meet with the Earl in the sitting room.

It only takes a few minutes of the Earl talking for Geralt to find himself clenching his teeth and wishing he could leave. Nobles are...difficult and while Jaskier is the exception, his father is not. That man rubs him the wrong way. And sure, Geralt hasn’t known Jaskier for very long, but the way his father had spoken to him the previous day made him want to impale the Earl’s head on a pike. Not to mention the letter. But Geralt is a man of relative control, and so he resists the urge to beat the man’s smug face in and makes a half-assed attempt to listen.

The Earl discusses the peace treaty with Geralt for a great length. Yes, it will last as long as all the witchers who signed it live. No, they don’t need to worry about that being anytime soon. Yes, the witches will offer their services throughout the kingdom and in turn the ruling lords will make sure that they are welcomed in all settlements in order to provide said services. Geralt quickly reverts to responding in nods and “hmmms,” and Vesemir be damned he is really not the person that should be having this conversation.

Finally after what feels like way too much time talking about what, in Geralt’s opinion, is meaningless, the Earl dismisses him and leaves to do whatever the fuck it is an Earl does on a daily basis other than sell off his son like a prized cow.

Feeling pent up, tired, and not knowing what else to do, Geralt heads to the stables to give Roach a good grooming and wind down.

The stables are quiet at this time of day, with the stable hands having done most of the tasks there early in the morning. Geralt locates Roach with ease, and immediately feels himself calm at the sight of his closest companion.

“It’s good to see you, girl,” Geralt tells her, giving the mare a pat as he heads into the stall. “I brought something for you.” He produces an apple from his pocket that he’d taken from breakfast. Roach’s ears flick forwards when she notices the apple and she eats it happily as Geralt starts on her coat with a curry comb. He sighs and presses his forehead against her neck in contentment. It feels good to have one familiar thing here, when everything else makes him feel so out of place. 

“There’s too much shit going on all at once, Roach,” he says, brushing her down in slow circles. “I can’t wait till we return to the path. This place feels wrong. It’s like everything I do only makes it all worse.”

Roach noses at Geralt’s now empty hand and then his pocket, looking for more apples with no luck. He pats her again.

“At least Eskel’s here, I’d be going mad if not for him, and I bet you like having Scorpion for company too.”

Roach nickers in response, one of her ears twitching as she listens. Geralt knows it’s a bit silly to be talking to a horse, but when you’re alone on the path for weeks on end, you tend to pick up odd habits. Eskel likes to sit up in trees and read. Lambert stuffs his pockets full of straw and slowly shreds it as he walks. Geralt has his whittling and talks to Roach. And so what if Roach is a horse, she’s a good listener and telling her his problems helps. At least he’s talking to a horse and not himself.

“I have to marry this guy two days after meeting him,” Geralt tells her. “All for some human peace treaty. I don’t know who thought _that_ was a good idea. You’re lucky you’re a horse. You don’t have to deal with these kinds of things.” He huffs a short laugh and moves to brush her other side.

The near silent crunch of someone stepping on hay makes Geralt pause his brushing and listen. A fast paced heartbeat, steady breathing, inhumanly quiet footsteps, the subtle smell of fear. 

_Jaskier._

Based on the direction, it sounds like he’s on the other side of the stable wall. Geralt feels a slight tug at his lips. So the bard’s following him, huh? Well, he can work with that.

Geralt resumes his brushing as if nothing is wrong and says, raising his voice ever so slightly, “Can you picture it Roach? Me married to a Viscount? Now _that_ will make for some interesting family reunions.”

Normally Geralt wouldn’t appreciate the audience, but for some reason he doesn’t really mind Jaskier listening. Though it sure is an interesting choice on the bard’s part considering what happened last night. But if Jaskier doesn't want to be seen, that’s fine. Geralt will just have to coax him out on his own.

“My fiance’s fine at least, but his dad’s a real dick. Thank Melitele we won’t have to deal with the in laws after the wedding.”

There’s a quiet snicker from behind the wall and Geralt smiles.

“But you wanna know about _him_ don’t you, girl? Well to start, he’s much too fancy for someone like me, all perfect posture and little heeled shoes. He’s quite handsome too.” 

There’s another slight sound of shuffling, as if Jaskier is leaning forward and pressing his ear to the wall and Geralt’s smile widens as he continues. “He studied to be a bard, so I got him a lute and carved some flowers into it. He seemed to like it, but you should’ve seen his face. His eyes were practically glowing.”

Roach nickers again and Geralt chuckles. “I know, I was surprised too. Lambert always says I have shit taste in gifts.” He pauses to listen before continuing. “His name is Julian, by the way, but he prefers to go by Jaskier. I think the name fits him well; a buttercup, pretty and poisonous. He certainly looks the part, and you should have heard how he yelled at me yesterday, caught me completely off guard. Though to be fair I deserved it.”

Geralt abandons the curry comb, now finished Roach’s other side and grabs a large stiff bristled brush to sweep away the loosened dirt.

“I think you’d like him. For a lord, he’s not so bad.”

The wooden wall creaks and Geralt hears Jaskier mutter a quiet “fuck,” as he shuffles around some more. 

“He’s genuine, doesn’t have any of that smug facade that you’d expect. I think I like him.” Geralt pauses and then raises his voice a little louder. “And he’s got balls to be spying on a witcher after what happened last time.”

Jaskier’s breath catches and Geralt can smell a tiny spike of fear coming from the other side of the wall, but it’s gone almost as soon as it appears.

“Geralt?” 

Jaskier’s voice comes in a quiet mumble and Geralt can’t help but roll his eyes. “Yes, Jaskier?”

“I’m coming out, please don’t stab me this time.”

The witcher breaths a laugh. “I won’t, Jaskier.”

There’s the sound of more shuffling and the creak of wood before Jaskier appears in the doorway, disheveled and covered in hay. The man looks at Geralt sheepishly, a slight red tinge on his pointed ears. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Geralt replies, amused. 

“You knew I was there the whole time, didn’t you?”

Geralt just hums and a blush seeps into Jaskier’s face. “Ah.” He steps forward and reaches out a hand towards Roach before turning to look at Geralt. “Can I?” Geralt nods and Jaskier steps up beside him, a smile spreading on his face as he pets Roach.

“Roach, Jaskier. Jaskier, this is Roach.”

“You named her Roach?” Jaskier says, petting the mare on her velvety nose and giggling when she nuzzles into the touch, looking to see if he brought any apples. “Geralt, how could you name such a sweetie after a cockroach?”

“Actually she’s named after the fish.”

“Hmm, well I suppose that’s better.”

“Do you want to help me brush her?” Jaskier nods and Geralt grabs another hard brush from the box, tossing it to him. “You can do that side, I’ll finish over here.”

The two of them work in silence for a while until Roach’s coat is free of dirt and they replace their stiff brushes with soft, thin bristled ones to finish the job. Geralt brushes Roach with long, careful strokes, glancing up at Jaskier every so often, who’s mirroring his movements on her other side.

“So you gonna tell me why you’ve been watching me today?” Geralt eventually asks, “Or are you going to keep sneaking around for no reason. I’ll hear you either way, witcher senses are impeccable.”

Jaskier bites his bottom lip as if considering, then says, “You’ll think it’s stupid.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow. “Try me.”

Jaskier lets out a sigh. “I’m waiting for you to do something. I don’t know what.”

“Like....talk to you?”

“No, what I mean is--” Jaskier pauses his brushing as he tries to find the right words, “I’m very good at reading people. I can tell what kind of a person someone is and what they want, usually from just watching them. But with you something is off-- and I don’t mean that in a bad way,” he adds quickly. “I just...well I don’t what to think about you really. I’m trying to figure it out.”

Geralt hums thoughtfully as blue eyes fall to meet his. “That’s not stupid. That’s you having basic survival instincts. It makes sense for you to be wary of me.”

Jaskier looks at him, as if searching his face for something. “It doesn’t upset you?”

“Why would it? I’m someone you don’t know that you’re going to be around for a long time, and a witcher on top of that. It would be concerning if you _weren’t_ suspicious of me.” 

“My father says my distrust insults people.”

“You father’s a _human,_ he doesn’t understand like I do.”

“Oh?” Jaskier says, sticking his chin out. “And what do you understand exactly, my dear witcher?”

Something inside Geralt flutters at the thought of being called _dear_ anything but he quickly pushes it away. “You’re fae, right?”

“A quarter.”

“So you’ve got heightened senses, you can detect things a human never could. You’re stronger, more resistant, live longer, _feel_ stronger than humans do and you can tell what others are feeling.” He pauses, giving Jaskier a questioning look to ask if he’s on the right track and Jaskier nods. “But because of that your emotions can also _break_ you easier than a human. So you’re naturally cautious. You watch, you wait, and you learn, then you make your move.” He taps his chin in thought and then adds, “Quite similar to a witcher, actually.”

“I…” Jaskier’s mouth opens and shuts like a fish out of water.

“Give me your hand, Jaskier.” Geralt reaches over Roach’s back, hand outstretched, palm up.

Jaskier gives him an odd look and Geralt doesn’t miss the pink tinge that rises in his face. Then he slowly places his hand on Geralt’s.

“What do you feel?”

“It…it kind of tingles?” Jaskier wets his lips and squeezes his eyes shut in focus. “But only if you’re really looking for it. Being so close to you, I can _feel_ something, but I don’t know what, all I know is my brain is screaming at me that something is wrong, to get away.”

“That’s mutagens and magic running in my veins,” Geralt tells him. “Your body is sensitive to magic, it knows I could pose a threat to you.”

Jaskier’s eyes flick open and he grabs Geralt’s palm with his other hand as well, brush falling to the ground, forgotten. Tentatively, he traces a finger down the lines and scars on Geralt’s skin and a shiver runs down the witcher’s spine. “I’ve never thought about it like that.”

“You should,” Geralt says. “It’ll come in handy when we’re on the path. Instincts keep you alive. Witchers use these,” he flicks a finger over the wolf medallion around his neck, “to sense magic for us. You can do it on your own.”

Jaskier rubs a thumb across Geralt’s palm, a look of wonder etched across his face, and to Geralt’s surprise he has to suppress a small sound rising in his throat. Jaskier’s touch is light as a feather and gentle, so gentle it catches him off guard.

Then a smirk tugs at Jaskier’s lips and he cocks an eyebrow at him. “So I won’t be entirely useless to you out there. _I_ have an ability even a _witcher_ doesn’t.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Geralt warns. He tries to keep his face serious but Jaskier’s expressions are so animated they’re contagious and he can’t help but smile back. “Ability or not, it still won’t save you when a wyvern is trying to tear your head off.”

“No,” Jaskier says, grinning wider, “that’s what _you’re_ for.”

“It is.” Geralt pauses for a moment, then laces his fingers with Jaskier’s.

The look on the other man’s face falls when his eyes drop to the spot where their hands intertwine. Then he goes red as a tomato. “I…”

Geralt looks into his eyes, so blue they put the sky to shame, and Jaskier stares back, and it dawns on him that’s something he likes about the other man. Even when he’s scared, Jaskier still has the nerve to look Geralt in the eye, something that very few people have done over the course of his long life. Geralt gives him a look of complete sincerity. “I’ll protect you, Jaskier. I promise. Whatever we do, wherever we go, I’ll fight to keep you safe. On that you have my word.”

Jaskier makes a choked up noise and he just stares at Geralt, trembling. When he does speak, his voice is barely a whisper. 

“Don’t say that. Don’t say that unless you mean it. Because I _can’t_ \-- no one’s ever…”

Geralt squeezes his hand lightly, feeling the tremors that run through his body and Jaskier’s breath hitches. “I mean it.” And he does, he really does, because though they just met something inside him is just _aching_ to protect Jaskier, to preserve that fire behind his eyes, a man who can look at Geralt, barely knowing him, and not see him as the monster everyone else sees.

“Thank you, Geralt.” Jaskier’s voice is soft, but unwavering and it makes Geralt’s chest feel suddenly too tight. “ _Really._ That means more than you know.”

Geralt laces their fingers tighter. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's about the ~eye contact~ folks. The stolen glances, the yearning, the hand holding. Am I right?
> 
> I hope the pacing on things is ok, I'm not a very experienced fic writer and pacing is not my strong suit. I'm trying to make people react to the situation in a way that makes sense, but I'm never sure, ya know?


	6. Seal it With a Kiss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I write this instead of working on my projects right in the middle of midterms? Yes. Do I regret it? That is still to be determined.
> 
> Did I spend ten minutes googling different types of sleeves on men's clothing in the old timey times? Also yes.
> 
> This chapter is another long boi. I hope you like it.

The night before the wedding, Jaskier’s father has Geralt join them for dinner. 

He’d hardly gotten a chance to see Geralt at all that day, with his father sweeping him away to assist with wedding preparations, only briefly running into the witcher in the halls on his way from task to task. Jaskier found his assistance to be a somewhat cruel irony, akin to a man digging his own grave. Though he was smart enough not to mention that observation to his father. 

Amid his responsibilities of confirming the reception menu, selecting flower arrangements, signing little thank you cards to be sent to guests afterwards (a task that made him want to rip each one into a thousand pieces and also throw up), Jaskier’s mind drifted to thoughts of Geralt.

Geralt has been the subject of a lot of Jaskier’s thoughts lately, but this time it’s in a good way, one that reminds him of the tingle of Geralt’s skin pressed against his, and the warm feeling that had flooded Jaskier’s entire being. And that feeling was most certainly caused by the words Geralt had spoken and not influenced by other factors, like how Jaskier went weak at the knees when Geralt laced their fingers together. _No, definitely not because of that._

_...Alright, maybe a little bit because of that._ But mostly what he’d said.

And the funny thing is, if someone else had made the same claim as Geralt, Jaskier would have ruled it off as an empty promise, something said in order to make him more compliant in all of this. But for some reason the words shook him to his core. And the even funnier thing is that despite only knowing Geralt for a short time, Jaskier actually believes him.

And so, after the whiplash of his lovely conversation with Geralt followed by a day of wedding planning (grave digging), by the time dinner rolls around Jaskier feels as if his emotions are playing a very intensive round of tug-of-war. He still hates being forced into the marriage, but at the same time Geralt seems to be a kind person who wants to treat Jaskier with respect, and while Jaskier never wanted any of this, things could have been so much _worse._

Dinner that night is a quiet and stiflingly intimate event. The usual grand dining table has been replaced by a slender model made from carved oak, so that Jaskier’s father and stepmother can sit at the head on either side, while he and Geralt are positioned across from each other in the middle. His father had taken him aside beforehand and given him a set of commands to make sure that he behaves. Tonight’s bundle includes: _Don’t speak ill of the union between you and your betrothed, do not show disrespect to your family or your betrothed, be happy and agreeable when prompted,_ and the ever timeless classic, _be on your best behaviour._ It’s his father’s form of insurance, to make sure that Jaskier doesn’t try and sabotage things so close to the _oh so happy day._ All temporary, lasting for the duration of the evening, and all just vague enough for Jaskier to find a loophole if he really feels like pushing it. 

The Earl plays his hand like a game of politics, always careful to keep up his mask of manners and tradition in order to avoid offense that causes the other party to forfeit the deal. It’s a vicious game, full of honeyed words and metaphors that dance around true intent, and Jaskier could actually be quite good at it if he gave a shit. But alas, he does not.

It’s a formal meal and Jaskier is dressed up in one of the outfits commissioned along with the one he wore to meet Geralt; a deep green doublet with bishop sleeves and a golden trim. It’s an unexpected side effect that when combined with his ears, wearing it makes Jaskier feel like a fae prince, stepping out of the pages of a story book. Across from him, Geralt has been dressed in a dark grey tunic, accented with silver thread, which looks very out of place in comparison to his usual armor or loose fitting black shirts. 

He has to hide his smirk when he imagines how the witcher had reacted when presented with such finery, then told to wear it.

Once everyone is seated, servants bring around plates of food loaded high with roasted pheasant stuffed with rice and herbs, rolls of flaky bread, miniature meat pies, and roasted apples with root vegetables. Jaskier’s parents don’t waste time cutting into their food, while Jaskier makes an immediate grab for the wine-- something tells him he’ll need it tonight.

Geralt stares at his plate in silence, then at the arrangement of forks beside it.

“Something wrong, witcher?” The Earl drawls, as he catches notice from his place at the table. His voice sounds dignified, but the sneer is still there.

Geralt’s jaw flexes. _“No.”_

Jaskier takes a generous sip from his goblet, knowing that this will only be the first time he wishes he could reach over the table and throttle his father tonight. He nudges Geralt’s foot under the table, then slowly picks up the correct fork. The witcher repeats the movement across from him, a look of gratitude behind his eyes, and Jaskier allows himself a small smile. 

The Countess seems oblivious to the entire interaction and also gives Geralt a thin lipped smile, accompanied by a glassy expression. “So, I suppose you’ve seen some interesting things during your profession as a witcher,” she says, “any riveting stories to share?”

Geralt pauses cutting into his pheasant then replies, “I’m afraid I'm not very adept at storytelling.”

“Oh but you must have something. Won’t you indulge us?”

Neither Jaskier nor her husband say anything, but the Countess gives a vacant smile to each of them, as if they all share the same goal, then turns her attention back to Geralt.

The witcher gives a small sigh. “Well, if my lady requests it, perhaps I can share one story.” He puts down his fork and clears his throat, and Jaskier’s ears perk up in anticipation.

“It happened many years ago,” Geralt begins. “I was a young witcher then, only having walked the path for a few years. It was late in autumn, just near the tail end of the harvest, and contracts were becoming more scarce and I was growing short on money. Monsters are less active in the colder months, you see, it slows them and with the exception of undead, most stay hidden once the frost starts to set. Normally witchers haul up somewhere during the cold season, those whose school is still standing will winter there and train, usually beginning the trek once the weather cools. But this year the frost came early, so I had a long way yet to travel until I reached the mountains.”

He pauses to take a sip from his goblet before continuing and Jaskier finds himself shuffling a little straighter in his chair, now growing eager at the opportunity to learn more about Geralt.

“I came across a man on the road one day, who spoke of a beast that lived in the woods nearby, one that lured men into the forest at night, tore them open, and feasted upon their still beating hearts. I asked the man if anyone would pay to have it killed, and he told me there was a town that had lost many and may be willing to offer up the coin. But he warned me that others had already tried to slay it, with none returning, and it could very well end my life as it had theirs.

“Now, as a witcher, I was no stranger to beasts such as the one he described, so I thought nothing of his warning and made my way to the nearby town. Once I arrived the mayor did indeed offer me a contract to kill the beast, but he too warned me of the danger. Once again, I thought nothing of it-- townsfolk frequently exaggerate things like this and I assumed that to be the case with this creature as well. So the next night, I headed out to track this so-called beast. It wasn’t long before I came across a stain of blood in the dirt, then another, and I followed the trail deeper and deeper into the woods and as I walked the air around me became colder, until everything was covered in ice and snow. At the end of the trail I came across a large clearing in the center of the forest, and there in the middle of the clearing, I found the creature, tearing through the remains of one of its victims.”

The Countess gives a small gasp and places a hand over her heart and Jaskier leans in a little closer as Geralt’s mouth draws wider when he speaks, enough to show off the slight points of his canines.

“From the description I assumed it would be a werewolf, maybe even a striga, but the creature I found myself face to face with was something I had never encountered before, and never would again. It was huge, with thick matted fur and talons the size of daggers. It shrieked at me, it’s cry a terrible ear splitting scream that shattered icicles on nearby tree branches. I drew my sword, and then it charged.

“I had never fought a beast like it before,” Geralt says, “but all beasts are the same in at least some regard, so I relied on my instincts for most of the battle. But what I didn’t know is that this creature was far more intelligent than I expected, and it found a way to throw me off balance and wrench my sword from my hands. It pinned me beneath its talons, and when I looked into its eyes, I saw sadness. The kind that you only see in someone that has experienced heartbreak. And as I felt it squeeze the air out of my throat, I noticed the glint of something embedded in it’s chest. Just as my vision began to go dark, I grabbed for the shining object and ripped it from the creature’s skin.”

The table falls silent, as the witcher pauses for dramatic effect, the scrape of cutlery abandoned as his audience gives him their full attention.

“I passed out a moment later. When I awoke, I found a beautiful maiden leaning over me, with pointed ears and eyes the colour of starlight. In my hand was the object I pulled from the creature, and I could see that it was a single teardrop, frozen solid. The maiden began to cry. She told me that she was a princess, a high fae from the seelie court, cursed to have all her love end in heartbreak. She said that she’d been betrayed by her lover, and cried until her tears froze over and pierced her heart, and she was so broken and empty inside that it turned her into a beast. And as she cried the forest around us slowly began to thaw, and then once she had finished she thanked me for saving her. 

“She said to me, ‘Witcher, my people are known for their curses, but what many do not know is that we also have the power to bless. I have nothing to give you in return for saving me, but I can offer this.’ I told her I would be honored to accept her blessing-- because it is considered an offense to leave a member of the fair folk indebted to you, much less a princess, and I didn't want to invoke the wrath of the fae. So the princess placed a hand on my heart and said, ‘your life is one full of misery and despair, but I give you this, may you one day find a love so great it’s strong enough to transcend even a lifetime.’”

“And?” The Countess, presses, eyes alight.

“That was that,” Geralt says. “We parted ways, and I returned to the town, contract fulfilled, with enough money in my pocket to make it until winter.”

“What a lovely tale! And you said you weren’t adept at telling stories. I was practically on the edge of my seat.”

Geralt smiles at her politely, “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

“That _was_ well told,” Jaskier admits, and even his father nods in agreement.

The Countess claps her hands together, also nodding. “And now you have the perfect ending for it!”

Geralt blinks. “Ending?”

“You get to marry Julian,” she says excitedly.

Jaskier nearly chokes on his wine, and everyone’s head suddenly snaps in his direction. He quickly straightens, dabbing at himself with the corner of his napkin. “I think that’s a little bit forward,” he manages to choke out, “don’t you think, Mother?”

“It’s _romantic_ ,” the Countess replies, dreamily.

Jaskier has to bite his tongue to keep from correcting her and saying _no actually, this marriage is complete horseshit that I’m literally forced to say yes to._

Of course she would see it that way, she’d had an arranged marriage with Jaskier’s father after all, and Jaskier assumes it takes a special brand of person to see past _his_ flaws. And she’s always been the flighty sort, one to ignore the details and focus on the prospects of a romance novel, rather than see a marriage of necessity to prevent a war.

He wishes he could plant his face on the table so Geralt can’t see his expression, and silently curses himself. He’d spent all his energy worrying about his father, so much so that he’d underestimated that his stepmother could pose a problem tonight as well. 

_Gods_ , is it too much to ask to just curl up in the corner and die?

Geralt seems entirely unphased by Jaskier’s reaction and gives the Countess another polite smile, but there’s a hint of mischief in it when he catches Jaskier’s eye. “If your son is so inclined, I would be honored to one day see if the princess’s words hold true.”

Heat rises in Jaskier’s face, and he’s sure the tips of his ears have just turned cherry red.

“See, Julian,” the Countess says, “It’s just like something from one of your little stories.”

“They’re not _little stories_ , they’re fae mythology.” And he reads them so he can learn about who he is, not for cute little anecdotes, but he doesn’t say more than that because it never goes over well when he reminds people of what he is.

“But the witcher’s story _is_ similar is it not?” Jaskier’s father asks, raising an eyebrow. 

“ _And_ romantic,” his stepmother adds.

“I--” there’s a challenging glint in his father’s eye, and Jaskier feels the pull of the command tugging at his lips-- “Yes, I _suppose_ one could say that.”

“Exactly,” the Earl says, dabbing at the corner of his mouth with his napkin, “see, I knew this marriage was a good choice for you.”

_And...there_ it is. Just perfect.

“If you say so,” Jaskier replies carefully. A fake smile is plastered on his face, but underneath his teeth are clenched tight. 

“Speaking of which, we have some things to discuss.”

And...that marks the end of Jaskier’s chances to enjoy dinner. 

His father clears his throat and Jaskier immediately turns his attention to his barely touched plate, hoping to get in a few good bites before food begins to make his stomach churn.

Golden eyes flick from Jaskier to his father. “What kind of things?” Geralt asks. 

“Oh nothing to concern yourself too much with, just a few details we should go over in regards to the ceremony, and such.”

Jaskier takes a forkful of his meat pie, the buttery flaky crust suddenly too rich for his appetite, sucking all the moisture from his mouth. Hopefully he can get through this without wanting to throw up.

“Very well,” Geralt says-- he looks as awkward as Jaskier feels.

“Excellent. Most things are ready to go for tomorrow, the servants finished the last of the decorating this afternoon-- Julian, I trust you confirmed the menu with the chef?”

Jaskier keeps his eyes on his plate. “Yes.”

“Good, and I saw the stack of signed cards that we’ll send to the guests afterwards. We’ve arranged for the reverend to officiate, as well as the appropriate officials. All the lords who signed the treaty will be in attendance--”

“--And the guests have all accepted,” The Countess adds.

“I don’t seek to offend,” Geralt cuts in before the Earl can continue, “but the details of decorating and the guest list are of no concern to me. I wish to simply fulfill the contract requirements and be done with it. Unless it involves me directly, you need not mention it.”

“Uh, very well,” Jaskier’s father says, straightening in his chair, “I shall spare you the details, and simply ask, will your fellow witcher be attending?”

“He’ll attend the ceremony, but he’s declined the invitation to the reception,” Geralt replies.

“Alright, then we need not amend the seating arrangements. Now, for the wedding itself I will have you and Julian sign a copy of the treaty-- I know you both already have, but this one is simply for show, so that all the lords can bear witness. Then there is the matter of titles; normally when marrying into the family the spouse would take on a title, but considering the...circumstances-- Julian is marrying into your family rather than you into ours-- you won’t be granted a title and he will relinquish his after the ceremony. I trust that is alright with you?”

“Of course,” Geralt says, “I have no need for titles.”

Jaskier doesn’t miss the fact that his father is asking if _Geralt_ takes issue and not _him_. Jaskier is the one actually giving something up in this situation, after all-- a fact that his father had yet again neglected to mention earlier. Though he can’t find room in his mind to actually give a shit at this point. He was never going to inherit his father’s title in the first place, and being a Viscount has done fuck all for him thus far.

“Then the only thing we to discuss is the consummation--”

This time it’s Geralt that chokes on his wine. The witcher’s eyes go wide, and he coughs violently while Jaskier’s parents look taken aback and Jaskier fights the urge to groan and slam his head repeatedly into the table. 

“I’m sorry, did you say _consummation?”_

“Yes, the consummation will be after the recep--”

“What? No.”

The Earl scoffs. “I _beg_ your pardon?”

“You can’t just _expect_ that of us.”

Jaskier allows himself to look at Geralt, suddenly _very_ interested in what the other man has to say. The witcher’s fists are clenched on the table, jaw tensed, with a terrifying expression adorning his features.

Jaskier’s father, to his credit, does not falter at the sight of an angry witcher and firmly says, “of course we can. It’s customary.”

“You want me to just _fuck_ your son? We hardly know each other.”

The Earl makes a face at Geralt’s choice of words, but remains composed. “I merely want you to fulfill the terms of the contract. The contract _you_ signed.” He gestures a hand in Jaskier’s direction. “Julian understands the situation, and has no qualms about it.”

_Yes he fucking does_ , Jaskier wants to say, but the command keeps him from speaking. Instead he bites down on the inside of his cheek, wanting to disappear.

“I--” Geralt’s mouth falls open, as he looks between them. When his eyes meet Jaskier’s, there’s something pleading behind them. A small, strangled sound escapes Jaskier’s throat, but he can’t get his jaw to move, the magic keeping it locked tight.

“I...need to get some air,” Geralt says, standing from his chair.

The Earl’s eyes bulge in his head, face as red as Jaskier’s. “Witcher, you can’t just--”

“I’m _leaving._ ” Geralt throws his napkin down on the table, and stalks out of the room, nearly giving an oncoming servant a heart attack as he shoves past.

Jaskier watches him leave, a horrible twisting feeling in his gut.

“ _Well,”_ the countess says, “that was--”

“I’m leaving too,” Jaskier blurts out, also rising, but he quickly remembers himself and turns to his father adding, “If...that’s alright, that is.”

His father sighs and waves a dismissive hand. “Just go.”

Jaskier’s feet move as fast as his body will let them, whilst still remaining in the parameters of the “no running in the house” rule and he follows after Geralt, blood pounding in his ears. Once he reaches the garden he breaks into a run. He only stops when he arrives at his usual spot at the stone bench, and is met with a very tense witcher who looks as though he’s about to start tearing his hair out. 

“I thought I might find you here,” Jaskier says, voice breathless.

Geralt whirls around, and he has to stop himself from flinching when the full intensity of the witcher’s attention falls to him. Geralt’s eyes are blown wide, his brow furrowed. His face is a mixture of anger and panic. _“Jaskier,”_ he rasps.

Jaskier carefully takes a step towards the witcher, with a hand tentatively outreached. “Geralt, are you okay?”

Geralt eyes him in hesitation, but allows Jaskier to approach, until the two are standing a couple feet apart. It’s almost strange to see a creature as powerful as a witcher regard Jaskier with something akin to fear in his eyes. Most people would say that such a thing was impossible. Witchers don’t _feel_ , certainly not emotions like fear. But witcher or not, Geralt is still a man and it’s only taken a few days for Jaskier to learn that the “witchers don’t feel” rhetoric is total bullshit, so why shouldn’t Geralt be allowed to be afraid?

“I’m--” Geralt looks at Jaskier but it seems as though he’s far away, trapped somewhere in his own mind. “Did you know?”

“Yes, it was in the contract.” 

Geralt tenses, gaze falling from Jaskier’s eyes. “I didn’t…” He looks as though he’s about to be sick. 

Jaskier tries to keep his voice as gentle as he can. “Geralt, you did... _read_ the contract, didn’t you?”

“I...may have _skimmed_ it.”

“Oh dear,” Jaskier runs a hand through his hair, tugging. “Perhaps we should, uh, have a seat? Or actually you look like you’re about to crawl out of your skin, how about a walk?”

Geralt stands there for a moment, then gives Jaskier a slow nod.

“Yes to having a seat or the uh--”

“Walk,” Geralt says, grabbing one of Jaskier’s wrists and pulling him along. “I need to move.” 

“Oh, uh alright then,” Jaskier sputters as Geralt leads him across the grass. The witcher’s strides are quick and driven, and Jaskier almost has to jog in order to keep up. Geralt’s hand grips him firmly, but not enough to be uncomfortable. His skin is extremely warm, and Jaskier has to fight another blush as it rises in his face-- and _holy fuck,_ he should not be this affected by a single touch. 

_Pull yourself together, Jaskier._

“You know, I have the perfect place for us to talk,” Jaskier says, trotting up alongside Geralt so they’re walking together instead of Jaskier getting dragged behind. He directs Geralt to a stone path near the edge behind the house lined by a mess of tall hedges. “It used to be a maze,” he explains when Geralt gives him a questioning look. “They were all the rage a few decades back, my father had it made to impress one of the royals from Aedirn when they visited. We don’t bother maintaining it anymore, but we never got rid of it either. It’s secluded, no one should overhear or come looking for us.”

“It’ll do,” Geralt grumbles, leading the two of them through the overgrown hedges. He keeps walking until they’re near the center of the maze, and Jaskier takes note of the fact that Geralt seems to have no trouble navigating it. Perhaps an excellent sense of direction is a witcher thing. 

Finally, they reach the circular clearing in the maze’s center, and Geralt halts to a stop, releasing him. “I'm sorry I ruined dinner.” Geralt says quietly.

Jaskier barks a laugh, mindlessly rubs the spot where Geralt’s fingers had been. “Oh please, dinner was going to be a shitshow either way. Your early departure saved me from dying in my chair.”

“I didn’t know. About the consummation.”

“You sound like you’re choking on that word, Geralt, you can just say fucking.”

Something in the witcher’s face softens at Jaskier’s remark. He bites his lower lip. “I don’t like that they expect us to do it. I don’t want to force you to. I don’t--” he pauses and gives a hollow laugh, tugging a handful of hair. “ _Fuck,_ I don’t even know what to say.”

And Jaskier doesn’t either. So he does something stupid. Because he’s feeling so many things all at once and doesn’t even know what to call them, and he just wants to _do_ _something_ to make it better. 

Fuck it. He grabs Geralt by the front of the shirt. The witcher makes a small sound and has barely enough time to say “what are you--” before Jaskier cuts him off by pressing their lips together.

It’s hesitant, just a simple brush of the lips, giving Geralt the opportunity to pull away if he wants to, but he doesn’t, so Jaskier tilts his head, squeezes his eyes shut and properly kisses him. 

And when Jaskier does pull away Geralt looks almost awestruck. 

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Making things easier,” Jaskier breathes, kissing him again. And it’s awkward and uncomfortable, and maybe even a bit inappropriate to be thinking about it, but kissing Geralt is _electrifying_ , and something inside Jaskier is positively _singing_ as he does it.

This time when he breaks the kiss, Jaskier scarcely has a chance to breathe before Geralt snakes a hand around the back of his neck and pulls him back in. A low rumbling sound rises in the witcher’s throat-- _fuck, that’s hot--_ and he kisses Jaskier with a gentle but intense ferocity that makes his knees weaken. And then Geralt licks into his mouth and brings his other hand around Jaskier’s waist-- _fuck, that’s_ really _hot--_ and Jaskier forgets how to stand.

When they pull away, both of them are breathing heavy. Jaskier's mind is muddled, and he has to put in effort to keep his voice steady as he pants, “There, we’ve broken the ice.”

Geralt huffs a laugh. “One hell of an icebreaker.”

“Yes, well, it will only go so far. Things are still going to be uncomfortable as fuck tomorrow.” He wipes the corner of his mouth with the pad of his thumb. “We’ll just get it over with quickly, and get through it together.”

Geralt’s hand cups the side of Jaskier’s face, his thumb tracing the upper ridge of his cheekbone. “Jaskier, I want you to know, I don’t _expect_ anything from you. This-- _us_ doesn’t have to mean anything. Not if you don’t want it to.”

Geralt’s words hit Jaskier like a crashing wave. The walls he’s built out of fear and anger crumble at the mercy of it. In all his years, he never expected the universe to offer him this one, single sliver of it, and he silently thanks every god he can remember the name of. And maybe a small part of Jaskier _does_ want it to mean something, because his soon-to-be-husband is gorgeous and kind, and so sincere that he almost doesn’t believe it’s real. 

“I-- _thank you_ , Geralt.” 

Geralt’s free hand trails down Jaskier’s side, and locks with his, their fingers lacing together. The witcher gives him a soft smile. “How about this?” he says. “We can have a union of pure companionship, no rules, no expectations. I don’t expect you to love me.” He gives Jaskier’s hand a little squeeze. “And if one day we want it to be something more, it can be. And if not, that’s fine too.”

“I recall something from a story about sealing an agreement like _this,”_ Jaskier mumbles, placing one more soft kiss on Geralt’s lips. 

The witcher smiles into the kiss and whispers against his mouth, “I guess we’re in agreement then.”

And the thing is, Jaskier never thought any happiness could come from this-- from his already so fucked up situation. _But_ , if given the chance, perhaps some could. 

Because, he thinks, Geralt could be an easy person for him to love.

And maybe, _just maybe,_ Jaskier can consider letting that happen.


	7. The Wedding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter and the next are kind of a two part situation, but don't worry I'm almost done the next one so It won't be too long before I post it.

It’s less than half an hour to the wedding and Geralt is once again pacing. 

Servants came to their room early that morning to drop off Geralt’s suit-- thank Melitele Lambert isn’t here to see it because he would be cackling. Instead Geralt gets Eskel, who politely waits until he’s actually wearing the suit to laugh at him. It’s a deep blue-- not some horrible bright colour like he’d dreaded--but far too ornate for Geralt to feel anything but ridiculous wearing it. And it’s one of those itchy expensive fabrics that’s too much on his sensitive skin, making him want to tear it off every time he moves.

It’ll be fine though, he just has to get through today and in the morning he and Jaskier can get the hell out of this place. Geralt can stomach one more day of stiff small talk and being gawked at like a raunchy art piece.

“How do you feel?” Eskel asks him, from his spot on the floor. He’s in their meditative position, trying to brace himself for being around so many people.

“Nervous. Kind of like I’m going to throw up.” He tugs at the ruffled fabric of his collar. “And ridiculous.”

Eskel huffs, keeping his eyes closed, but still smirking slightly. “You _look_ ridiculous dressed up like that. But then again, you always look ridiculous to me.” His brother opens one eye just in time for Geralt to smack him on the back of the head, and he chuckles. “You’ll be okay. You’ve fought half a kikimore nest with a stab wound in your stomach. How bad can getting through a wedding be?”

“Worse.” 

Eskel hums in agreement. They had both attended enough banquets over the years to know that people at formal events rarely had fun. And the more status you held the less enjoyable things were. Everything was for show.

“I just hope Jaskier is alright,” Geralt says, wringing his hands together. He’d tried to find the man that morning, but the servants kept shooing him away, saying Jaskier was busy getting ready. Geralt wishes he could talk to him one last time before the wedding. Maybe that would somehow make him feel better.

“He’ll be fine, he’s got you looking out for him.”

He does, Geralt thinks. The bard has somehow wormed his way into the witcher’s heart after just two days of knowing him and now for some reason all Geralt wants to do is keep him safe. It’s like his protective instincts saw Jaskier and decided to latch on. 

Plus, he’s...fond of him.

A knock at the door has both witchers turn their heads. Eskel quickly rises from his keeling position, and being the closest, opens it.

The Earl is standing on the other side, a small black box in his hands. “I require a moment with my son’s betrothed, he says, stepping past Eskel as if he’s no more than a piece of furniture.

Eskel just nods to Geralt probably wanting to get the fuck out of the room as soon as possible and says, “I’ll see you out there, wolf,” giving them a sideways glance as he exits into the hall.

Geralt crosses his arms over his chest, and leers at the Earl. “What is it?” he asks. He’s long past trying to be respectful at this point.

“Just thought I’d wish you well before the wedding,” the man says, simply. 

Geralt raises an eyebrow. “And?”

“Give you this,” he says, offering Geralt the box. “It’s a courting gift, from my family to you. For after the wedding.”

Geralt takes the box and gives him a somewhat painful “thank you.” Then the Earl offers him a nod before turning back out the door and saying, “I’ll see you at the reception, enjoy yourself.”

Now alone in the room, Geralt stares at the box. It’s extremely light, made from wood, and no bigger than the palm of his hand. It’s probably jewelry or something else that he doesn’t care for or need.

The clock on the wall chimes loudly. It’s time.

He catches his reflection one more time in the mirror and heaves a sigh. It looks wrong. All of this is wrong. 

Geralt shoves the box into the bottom of his bag and forgets about it.

\-------------------------

The grand hall is decorated so intensely that Geralt could almost mistake it for an entirely different room than the one he had arrived in two days ago. It’s as if they’re trying to make up for the fact that neither he nor Jaskier are on board with the marriage by using the power of decor. Just the sheer number of flowers alone is baffling, and the smell is strong enough to give him a headache.

Geralt catches Eskel's gaze from his spot on the dais. It’s the only safe place to look, really. The hall is filled with a moderate assortment of nobility, many of which balk at Geralt where he stands, others are too scared to look at him directly. Then there’s the ones that glance at him and whisper in hushed tones to each other.

He hears one woman in the front row remark to her companion, “It really _is_ a witcher. I didn’t think it was true when I heard.”

Another says, “I’ve never seen one up close, how frightening.”

A well-dressed man mutters to his wife, “Lord Pankratz’ poor son, married to a mutant like that. They’re rough, I hear. I wonder how long he’ll survive.”

They’re all things that Geralt has heard before, things that he’s long since learned to let roll off his shoulder. But the comment about Jaskier makes his blood boil. Sure, he knows how people see him, and though he ignores most of their insults, it’s the rumors that he’d ever lay a hand on someone against their will that get under his skin. And for some reason the fact that the subject is Jaskier makes it worse.

He would _never_ intentionally hurt Jaskier.

But he can’t stop what other people think. Geralt knows Jaskier must think that the rumors about him are at least somewhat true. He’s sorry that the man is forced to be with him, when he could have someone so much better. He deserves better than Geralt can give him. 

But even if what Geralt has to offer will always be lacking, he is still going to give Jaskier whatever the hell he can.

Across the room, Eskel gives Geralt one of his wordless expressions. _Hang in there, wolf._

It helps, but not enough. He still feels like someone is wringing his guts out between their hands.

The musicians start playing a slow, soaring melody, and the room quiets. The doors across from him open. Geralt’s heart beats faster. And then Jaskier appears in the doorway and-- _wow._

He’s _stunning._

His chestnut hair is swept to the side, the longer bits framing his face, just allowing the tips of his ears to peek out, and a delicate circlet made from silver leaves is placed on his head. His other jewelry is of a similar design, a set probably, with bracelets on each wrist, and a ring on his right hand. The matching doublet and pants he wears are white, patterned with a swirling design of the palest icy blue with glistening silver thread woven in that shimmers slightly when it catches the light. And around his shoulders sits a lacy sheer cape, also adorned with crocheted leaves near the bottom that trails behind him as he walks. He looks almost as if he’s made of snow, a focal point in the colourfully decorated room.

He keeps his face neutral as he approaches the dais, but his eyes are fixed on Geralt. It looks like his mind is buried far away. 

He’s nervous-- Geralt can tell when he zeros in on the scent of him, one that’s started to become familiar in the last couple of days. But he can also sense an underlying hint of rage and a sinking feeling spreads in Geralt’s chest as he’s reminded that Jaskier doesn’t want this.

Geralt offers him a hand when he reaches the base of the dais. The other man gives him a somewhat odd look, but takes it and allows Geralt to lead him up the steps to stand beside him. He gives Jaskier’s hand a light squeeze-- it’s a silent communication-- _I’m here, I know what you’re feeling. We’re in this together._

Once they turn their backs on the audience to face the reverend Jaskier returns the action with a squeeze of his own.

The reverend welcomes everyone and then the ceremony begins. It’s terribly long and boring and Geralt drowns out most of it. There’s words spoken about the great service they’re doing for their kingdoms, how their union will help bring peace across all territories. Then there’s the usual remarks about duty and love-- a light scowl paints Jaskier’s face during that and Geralt catches the Earl staring daggers at his son when he notices.

When the time comes to sign the marriage contract, the reverend beckons the lords that sit in the front row to come up. A pen is passed around and each of them signs it, before it’s handed to Geralt. Geralt signs it quickly, then gives the pen to Jaskier. His fiance’s hand is trembling when he takes it, and full on shaking as he signs, the carefully inked lines coming out wobbly. Lastly, the reverend gives the document an officiated seal, and it’s done. He looks to Jaskier. “Julian Pankratz of the Great House of Lettenhove, do you take Geralt of Rivia to be your lawfully wed husband, to be joined in sickness and health for as long as you both shall live?”

Jaskier takes a few moments to answer. He's still trembling slightly, though Geralt’s sure that only he and Eskel, with their impeccable senses would notice. Geralt can hear the man’s heart thumping like it’s trying to break free of his chest. Then Jaskier swallows and gives a somewhat pained smile. “I already signed the contract, didn’t I?” he says weakly.

“I’m afraid I require a proper response for purposes of the officiation, lord Julian.”

“Yes.” The quiver in his voice when he says the word makes something in Geralt break.

“And do you, Geralt of Rivia,” the reverend turns to him, “take Julian Pankratz of the House of Lettenhove, in sickness and health to be your lawfully wed husband for as long as you both shall live?”

Geralt’s instinctive response is to say “I guess so,” but for the sake of getting the ceremony over with he mutters out a “yes.”

“Then with the power invested in me, I pronounce this union official. You may now kiss the groom.”

Jaskier's grip on Geralt’s hand increases in force so it’s painfully tight. Had he been just a regular man, he wouldn’t have been able to stand it. Geralt lets it happen though, knowing that Jaskier needs something to focus on, an outlet of sorts for everything he’s feeling.

With his free hand, he gently lifts Jaskier's chin, then leans in and kisses him. It’s different from the ones they shared yesterday, devoid of any substance under the watchful gaze of the wedding guests. When he pulls away, Geralt feels empty inside.

The guests clap, some smile, but most don’t. Geralt feels like he’s swimming through honey as everyone is ushered into the ballroom and the revelry begins. It’s decorated like the hall, except it has tables with drinks and horderves along the wall and an open space for dancing.

Jaskier is pulled away by his father, and taken across the room, leaving Geralt alone. Amongst the noise of the guests Geralt can’t hear what his father tells him, but whatever it is Jaskier looks upset.

Geralt finds Eskel lingering at the drinks table, a bubble of empty space around him as the guests swerve to avoid getting too close. 

“Thought I’d check up on you before I head out,” the scarred witcher says as he gets close.

Geralt raises an eyebrow, pouring himself a glass of expensive champagne. “You’re going back to the path?”

His brother shrugs. “I’ve waited too long already, and there’s no reason for me to stay. You’ll be busy until tomorrow, and I can’t handle being around _this_ ,” he gestures around the room, “for too long. You’ll be alright without me?”

“I should,” Geralt says. He takes a sip from his drink then adds, “thank you for coming with me, Eskel. I don’t think I would have made it through this without you.”

Eskel gives him a slight smile. “Don’t worry about it.” Then he pats Geralt on the back. “Good luck. I’ll see you in the winter.”

Geralt would have embraced Eskel had they been alone, but under the watchful eye of the guests he didn’t want to be seen letting his guard down. Instead he nods, and the two of them clasp their hands together, then Eskel slips out of the room.

When Geralt turns, Jaskier is sitting alone at a table where his father left him. The witcher pours a second glass of champagne, and heads over to where he’s sitting. Jaskier looks up as Geralt approaches, and something in his face softens.

“Hey,” Geralt says, handing Jaskier the champagne glass and sliding into the chair next to him. “How are you feeling?”

“Shitty.”

Geralt breathes a small laugh. “Yeah that seems to be the general consensus. At least the drinks are good.”

“Thank the fucking gods.” He takes a long sip from the glass.

The two of them sit there for a while in silence, just watching the guests go about the party. Geralt catches someone staring at them, and whispering to the other guests. Jaskier follows his eyes, noticing them too and leans in close, poking Geralt’s shoulder. 

“Do me a favour and stick close,” he says, “you’re the only thing repelling the guests from trying to talk to me-- or worse, offer their _congratulations._ ” He shudders and spits out the last word like venom.

Geralt smiles, then whispers back, “It’s one of the perks of being a witcher.”

Eventually everyone is directed to the tables and the servants bring out dinner. Mercifully, Geralt and Jaskier’s table only includes the two of them-- an intimate and romantic dinner for the happy couple-- so they don’t have to worry about sitting with Jaskier’s parents and having a repeat of the night before. They eat together mostly in silence, neither of them feeling particularly talkative and only exchanging a few words here and there. 

Once dinner is trailing to an end, the musicians begin to play, and many of the guests take to the dancefloor. 

Geralt’s gaze drifts over to Jaskier who stares blankly at his empty plate, fingers drumming on the table. 

He looks...hollow.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says.

The bard doesn’t look up. “Hm?” 

“I don’t suppose...you’d be interested in a dance?”

Well that seems to get his attention. Jaskier’s eyebrows raise. _“You,_ Geralt of Rivia, want to _dance?”_

“Yes. Do _you?”_

“I mean, initially no, but now I’m invested in seeing the rare sight of a witcher that dances. When did you learn that?”

Geralt shrugs. “When you’re as old as I am, you pick up a few things.” He extends a hand to the bard. “So are you interested, or what? I think we both need a distraction.”

Jaskier eyes the offered hand. “People are going to stare at us,” he points out.

“Fuck people. They're already staring anyway.” 

“Alright,” Jaskier says after a moment. “Just let me get this cape off so I’m not tripping everywhere.” He palms at the fastening pins, but it’s difficult to get them undone at the awkward angle.

“Here, let me,” Geralt says, reaching over Jaskier’s shoulders and unclipping the fastenings. 

Jaskier gives a weak smile. “So forward, Geralt. We’ve been married for scarcely an hour and you’re already trying to undress me.”

Geralt just rolls his eyes and takes Jaskier’s hand, leading him to the dancefloor as the musicians begin a slow, sweeping waltz. He pulls him close, wrapping his other arm around his waist, while Jaskier lets his hand rest on Geralt’s shoulder. The two of them fall into step and Geralt does indeed feel the stares of the other guests burning into the back of his head. 

He ignores them, he ignores everything else in the room, because the only thing that matters is Jaskier. The owner of the sad blue eyes that aren’t afraid to look at him and see past the white hair and the gold eyes, the angry scars, and find Geralt the man, not Geralt the witcher. 

He traces his thumb back and forth against the small of Jaskier’s back where his hand holds him, as the bard’s eyes linger too long on the nearby guests.

_Hey, keep looking at me. We’re getting through this._

“I fear you’re actually a more graceful dancer than I am,” Jaskier murmurs, as Geralt leads him around the dancefloor in time with the music. “It’s bizarre.”

“Witchers have improved agility,” Geralt replies. “It extends to things other than just fighting.”

“Hm, imagine that. Witchers have secret dancing ability.”

“The _secret_ ,” Geralt says quietly, “is sword fighting.You need fast, careful footwork, good form and posture-- dancing is the same.”

“So you all dance?”

Geralt hums thoughtfully. “Not exactly. Most witchers don’t, but I like to keep myself well rounded in my skills.”

“Mmm, so I lucked out getting the rare, dancing witcher as a husband.”

“Yes,” Geralt murmurs, tugging him closer, “you did.”

The two of them dance for a time, until they grow tired of it, and the clock in the ballroom chimes loudly, signalling that another hour has passed. 

Jaskier grips Geralt’s hand across the table from where they had retreated to after their dance. “It’s getting late,” he says, softly. “We should...retire soon.”

“If you think you’re ready,” Geralt replies. He didn’t want to bring it up, but they both know they’ll have to fall into bed together sooner or later.

“It’s best we do it on our own,” Jaskier says, giving his hand a squeeze. “Before someone tries to make us.”

“Hmmm.” 

“I’m going to put the cape away,” he says, sliding out of his seat. “You can stay here, I’ll be back in a few minutes to come get you.”

The witcher hums in acknowledgement, and watches as his husband slips out of the room. 

_Husband._

Geralt doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to that. It’s a concept so foreign to him, he has yet to say the word out loud. And yet, whether he feels comfortable with the idea, Jaskier _is_ his husband. And he is Jaskier’s. They belong to each other now-- legally at least. As for actually being each other’s, well, Geralt hopes one day he can earn the right to call Jaskier his own. 

It’s an unorthodox predicament for the both of them, but Geralt truly wants it to work out.

When Jaskier returns, he’s abandoned the cape, as well as the jewelry, and a light blush tints his skin. He takes Geralt by the hand in silence, and Geralt does his best to offer a comforting smile, as his newly wed spouse guides him out of the ballroom.

His heart thumps in his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So folks, I'll give you three guesses as to what's in the box. (But I don't think you need them)
> 
> Don't you worry though, it'll just sit ominously in the background for now...


	8. Consummation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok here it is, the dreaded sexytimes chapter.
> 
> This is my first time writing smut so I apologize if it's complete trash. I promise I'll get better at it as I go.

By the time Jaskier leads him down the upstairs hallway and towards his bedchamber, Geralt’s heart is beating faster than it should have. A witcher’s heart is four times slower than a normal man’s. It’s only during a hunt that he can feel his heartbeat pick up enough for it to thump loudly in his chest, when his breathing is exerted and the toxicity is coursing through his veins from the potions he took. 

But Geralt feels painfully out of place walking down the lavish hallway; his eyes flickering to look at the paintings that line the walls, boots sinking in deep to the plush red carpet, his hand gripped by a man that’s far too beautiful to even be looking at someone like him.

Once inside the room, Jaskier releases his hand and pours them two glasses of wine from a tray on the bedside table. Geralt eyes him as Jaskier shoves the glass towards him before tackling his own with a desperate fever.

“I think we could both use something to ease the tension,” Jaskier says. 

Geralt just responds with a “hmmm” and takes a long sip from the glass in his hand. 

It takes much more than a single glass of wine to get a witcher even close to feeling any effect of alcohol, but the liquid helps his mouth that has already gotten far too dry and the gesture is appreciated. It...helps to know that Jaskier is just as uneasy as he is, though that’s evident from the start by the underlying whiff of fear that Geralt senses every time the other man is in his presence. 

Geralt can’t say that he  _ blames  _ him. He knows what he looks like, what people think of witchers. And even though Geralt knows that people’s assumptions of him are wrong, that he would never lay a hand on someone against their will, that he’s not just a mindless tool for killing monsters, it still hurts that Jaskier doesn’t truly want him.

It also hurts that Jaskier has emptied his wineglass in under a minute, because they both know that this...whole ordeal will be easier to get through if Jaskier is influenced by alcohol. 

Again, Geralt can’t blame him. But it still hurts.

“Right then, “Jaskier says, moving a hand to unbutton his doublet, “we’d best get on with it. I have no doubt they’ve got someone posted in the hallway, to make sure one of us doesn’t try to bail.”

Geralt’s expression instantly goes sour and he pauses for a moment to listen. Sure enough, the faint sound of another heartbeat could be heard coming from somewhere on the other side of the wall. 

A low growl rumbles in his throat.

Jaskier’s breath hitches at the sound but he quickly covers it up with a light chuckle. “My family is very particular about contracts,” he says with a shrug. “I know you didn’t read it, but consummation had its own section, I’m afraid. Could be worse though, when my cousin got married they had to do it in front of witnesses. Be happy we got the hallway guard.”

“They can’t just--”

“What?  _ Monitor our fucking?  _ In case you haven’t noticed they don’t trust you, and they definitely don’t trust me. Besides it’s  _ tradition. _ ” He says the word like it’s poison on his tongue.

“Witchers don’t have tradition. At least not things like that.”

Jaskier scoffs. “Well then welcome to Lettenhove, my dear witcher. Where we’ll likely have someone examine me tomorrow morning and put a fucking signature on the dotted line once they’re sure I’ve been _ railed _ good and proper.”

Geralt feels a sudden rush of anger coarse through him, and he snarls. He knew Jaskier’s father was a garbage human being from the start-- just the way he talks to his son is enough to determine that. But the fact that Jaskier’s family would treat him with so little dignity makes him want to break the wall down and strangle whoever was on the other side. 

“That’s...that’s--”

“Despicable?” Jaskier offers. “Humiliating? Fucked up? Perhaps a tad dehumanizing even?”

“That’s...not right.”

Jaskier steps towards him, doublet now hanging open and runs a hand up Geralt’s chest. “Darling, that’s politics.” He leans in close to his ear so that he can feel the heat of his breath when he speaks. “Now are we going to get this over with or what?”

Before he can respond Jaskier slides an arm around the back of his neck and tugs him in for a kiss. It’s tense at first, enough to make Geralt’s stomach churn and for him to hate himself a little, but it quickly becomes desperate. He finds himself kissing back, as Jaskier tilts his head and deepens it, before threading his free hand into Geralt’s hair. 

When Geralt pulls away, cornflower blue eyes are staring back at him, pupils dilated. “ _ Gods, _ I love your hair,” Jaskier murmurs, kissing him again. “It’s like fucking snow. Been waiting to get my hands on it since I first saw you.” He lightly tugs as the milky white hair around his fingers for emphasis and Geralt groans, leaning in to claim his mouth again.

It’s enough to set him at ease a bit, knowing that at least Jaskier isn’t entirely turned off by him. And it gives him the courage to keep going. 

Geralt wraps one of his arms around Jaskier’s waist and pulls him forward so their bodies are flush against each other, eliciting a gasp from the younger man and allowing Geralt the opportunity to lick into his mouth. Despite letting out a small sound of surprise, Jaskier opens for him willingly and grips his handful of moon white hair tighter. Geralt finds himself palming at his back, his shoulders, his chest, the curve of his ass-- and Jaskier lets him, humming against his mouth, keeping himself limp and pliant. 

He tastes like wine, and Geralt is again reminded that Jaskier doesn’t really want this, want  _ him _ . This is all just a means to an end.

He hates everything about this situation. He hates the fact that they don’t get a chance to really know each other. Hates that they don’t even get to have privacy. And he especially hates the fact that his cock is interested anyway. 

There’s slight pressure on his chest and Jaskier pushes him back, his breath coming out in soft pants. He latches onto the underside of Geralt’s jaw, kissing and licking as he maps out the length of his neck. He sucks a mark, then kisses it. His teeth scrape the sensitive skin and Geralt can’t help but let out a shaky groan and grab Jaskier by the front of his undershirt to pull him back to his mouth.

Deft fingers find their way to the hem of Geralt’s shirt as Jaskier kisses him back hard. His fingertips ghost across the solid muscle of Geralt’s abdomen then he gives the fabric a nice sharp tug. “Let’s get this off you, hmmm?” Jaskier says against his lips.

And Geralt lets him pull the shirt over his head, and chuck the crumpled ball of fabric to the floor. He holds his breath when Jaskier is finally able to see the mess of scars that litter his skin. A tiny “oh” escapes his mouth, and Geralt suddenly feels as though he’s placed under a magnifying glass.

All of a sudden he’s unable to look the other man in the eye

“I know I’m not your first choice,” he says, his voice soft. There was no way he would ever be his first choice. Probably not even his hundredth choice. Jaskier is so beautiful.  _ Painfully so. _ There is no way someone like him would choose a mutant like Geralt if he was given a choice in the matter.

“I never said that,” Jaskier whispers. 

_ You didn’t have to,  _ he wants to say. But he never gets the chance because as soon as he’s able to find the words Jaskier is trailing his hands across the uneven skin and Geralt can’t help but lean into the warmth of his touch.

He finally lets himself breathe when Jaskier looks him in the eye and places a soft kiss over the long scar on his shoulder. Then another one above it, until he’s trailing kisses back up to his lips. 

This time the kiss is gentle, almost sweet, and Geralt allows Jaskier’s hands to wander until they’re pulling at the laces of his breeches. He begins walking them in the direction of the bed and Geralt grabs the bard’s lower lip between his teeth in response, earning him a high pitched whine. 

Jaskier steps back and shucks the remains of his clothing then sits himself down on the bed. He stares at Geralt expectantly. 

Geralt follows suit, fully unlacing his pants and pulling out his rapidly hardening length. He finally allows his eyes to trail down Jaskier’s body, taking in the full view of him. 

Geralt doesn’t have as many words at his disposal to describe things as Jaskier probably does. Or even someone like Eskel. But in one word he would describe him as stunning. In two it would be  _ unfairly attractive _ . His chestnut brown hair is tousled just so, his freckled skin nearly flawless, cheeks tinged pink, and his  _ eyes.  _ Geralt could spend a hundred years getting lost in that deep blue. 

_ Thank the gods _ , Great thinks, as his eyes trail lower and sees that Jaskier is just as hard as he is. He doesn’t think he would be able to go through with this if he wasn’t-- no matter how attractive Geralt finds him to be. 

He wants to stare at Jaskier, touch him until every inch of his body is memorized by his calloused hands. And he feels bad for wanting it because even if they’re married, he doesn’t feel like he has the right. 

As Geralt’s gaze trails back up he notices that Jaskier is staring at him too, through half lidded eyes, also mapping out the expanse of his skin, and Geralt catches a spike of arousal in the air, but the underlying scent of fear is still there. 

He can’t help but feel guilty as he approaches the bed.

He leans down to kiss Jaskier and he arches up into it, tilting his head so Geralt can better access his mouth. 

“Are you sure about this?” Geralt asks him. 

Jaskier responds with a hollow laugh. “You’re asking me as if we have a choice.”

“I’m not going to--  _ godammit  _ Jaskier _ \--  _ I’m not going to do anything without your consent. We can...find a way to postpone it if you need.”

Jaskier smirks at him as if he’s just told an amusing joke. “No. We really can’t.” He pecks Geralt again on the mouth. “It’s fine, I’ve accepted that.”

Geralt is unconvinced. He doesn’t know how much knowledge Jaskier actually has about witchers, if he’s aware that Geralt has enhanced senses and can smell his fear. But no matter how well Jaskier thinks he is hiding it, he still flinches slightly when Geralt joins him on the bed. 

He wonders what Jaskier’s family had told him about what Geralt would be like before they met. Humans already had such negative opinions of witchers, he wouldn’t be surprised if Jaskier had been told that Geralt would do terrible things to him. From the way that Jaskier’s hands are trembling he has a sneaking suspicion that the bard half expects him to throw him on the ground and fuck him like an animal.

Geralt’s stomach churns again and he wishes there was something he could do to make this whole situation better, but he knows he can’t. The best thing he can do is just get it over with. 

Tentatively, Geralt threads his fingers through Jaskier’s hair and his eyes flicker shut. 

“I’ll be gentle, okay?”

Jaskier only hums in response then moves to get on his hands and knees but Geralt stops him before he can.

“Here,” he says, arranging the pillows against the headboard and then guiding Jaskier to lie back on them. “It'll be more comfortable like this.”

Jaskier nods, settling himself against the pile of pillows and grabs one to maneuver under his hips, then he lets Geralt gently push his thighs apart. 

He moves himself between Jaskier’s legs, and runs one hand up his abdomen, while the other gently continues to caress his hair. “Do you--” Geralt has to struggle to fight a groan once he hears the strain in his voice-- “do you have any oil?”

“Don’t need it,” Jaskier mutters in response. He shifts his hips and Geralt looks down to see what he means and  _ fuck he’s _ \-- he’s wearing a plug.

“They told me I’d have to,” he says weakly. “Said you wouldn’t want to wait.”

Geralt finds himself at a loss for words and a growl rises in his throat. The thought that they’d just assume he’d-- that they let Jaskier  _ believe _ he would take him without proper preparation-- Geralt would  _ never.  _ He would never. 

“It’s okay. I know you wouldn’t,” Jaskier says as if somehow reading his thoughts. He runs the back of his hand down the contour of Geralt’s face. “You’re not like that.”

Geralt looks down at Jaskier, his blue eyes wide with uncertainty, his heartbeat thumping loud in the cage of his chest. 

“Oil,” he says again, this time insistent. 

“Night table. Top drawer.”

Geralt reaches over him and pulls the drawer open, fumbling around until his fingers find a small corked vial. He pops the cork open with his teeth and shudders as the faint scent of chamomile wafts towards him. Carefully, he reaches between Jaskier’s legs and twists the end of the plug, then slowly pulls it out. 

Jaskier lets out a hiss.

“Sorry.”

“S’fine.”

He pours some oil into his hand and slicks up a finger. “Can I?”

“Yes.”

The bard takes in a sharp breath when Geralt carefully circles his entrance, and softly eases a finger inside. 

“Fuck,” he rasps. 

Jaskier is hot and slick inside-- probably from the remains of the oils he’d needed when he put the plug in. He’s loose too, but Geralt is, well, particularly blessed below the belt. There’s no way that he’d be able to take him comfortably without further preparation. Though Geralt doesn’t mind taking the time to ease Jaskier into it. In fact he actually enjoys this part when he is normally with a partner, man or woman. 

He slowly slides his index finger in and out of him, making sure Jaskier has a chance to get used to the feeling before he adds his middle finger in alongside it. He pushes them deeper and curls them to reach a spot that makes Jaskier arch up into him and moan softly. 

_ Hmmm. There.  _ He rolls his fingers against that spot again. And again. Until Jaskier is shaking and breathless beneath him. He adds a third finger while he continues the motion, but keeps his rhythm steady. 

Finally, he’s prepared enough, and Geralt moves his hand away to slick oil onto his cock. “Are you ready?” he asks softly.

“I don’t know, Geralt, you tell me. You’re the one who was just three fingers deep in my ass.”

The corner of his lips tug into a slight smirk. Even now, Geralt can see a glimpse of that fire. That brash defiance that’s stifled beyond belief, but he just knows Jaskier is dying to set free. Perhaps one day he will get to see it happen. 

Leaning forwards, Geralt begins to line up the head of his cock with Jaskier’s entrance, but he stops when he places a hand on his shoulder. 

“Just...go slow, okay?”

“Of course,” Geralt says and pets his hair again-- the action had seemed to calm him slightly before. Then after a minute Jaskier nods. 

They both groan when Geralt starts to push in. He inches forward slowly, letting Jaskier take him bit by bit, and bites his lip as he resists the urge to thrust into his slick heat. 

Jaskier is tight around him, and hot, and wet, and it feels _so_ _good_ that he can’t help but give a low moan. If he closes his eyes, Geralt can almost believe that they’re somewhere else, that this is some desperate fling in the room of a shitty inn with a beautiful stranger rather than an awkward intimacy with a man that was forced to marry him two days after meeting. 

Jaskier gasps when he finally bottoms out, and Geralt kisses him, hoping to distract from any discomfort that he feels. They remain that way for a moment, just breathing heavily, and getting used to the feel of each other.

And then Jaskier takes a deep breath and squeezes his eyes shut and whispers “Ok, go ahead,” and Geralt’s throat chokes up. He can feel Jaskier trying to relax around him, but his muscles are tense.

He waits another second and then gently, so gently that it’s barely a movement at all, rocks his hips forward. It’s a single, fluid motion and Geralt tries to make it as kind as possible. 

Jaskier’s lips part to make a small “o” when he does it a second time. And then again. And again, until he’s established a careful rhythm. 

Underneath him Jaskier squirms and throws his head back, his breath coming in short little pants, as Geralt fucks into him. His legs wrap around Geralt, pulling him closer. 

Geralt takes this as an invitation to keep going and starts to pull out a little bit farther with each thrust, maintaining the same careful pace, but allowing for more movement. 

A pressure builds in his abdomen, and Geralt’s not sure how long he’ll go for. Witchers normally have incredible stamina that even extends into the bedroom, but the slow roll of his hips feels too intimate, too loving, and it’s almost more than he can handle. It’ll be better for the both of them if it’s over soon anyway.

He leans down and kisses him. Jaskier whimpers into his mouth but remains responsive like before and kisses back with desperation. Geralt trails kisses down his jaw and sucks the spot underneath it, where Jaskier had done the same to him. The other man tilts his head back, giving him better access, and he continues his ministrations in between each thrust. 

He only pulls away when he feels wetness drip onto his forehead, and looks up to see that Jaskier has tear tracks running down his face. 

Geralt stops everything immediately, panic suddenly rising in his chest. “Am I hurting you?”

Jaskier's voice is barely a whisper. “No.”

“Are you alright?” 

There’s a pause and Geralt suddenly feels like a dick for asking the question when he already knows the answer, but Jaskier eventually nods and breathes a quiet “yes.”

“Do you want to keep going?”

Another pause, longer this time. Then another nod.

Geralt resumes his motion, and hopes that the nod was sincere. And even though he knows that Jaskier doesn’t want this, he tries to make it good for him. He presses soft kisses to Jaskier’s mouth, his collarbone, his chest. He reaches between them and palms at his cock, dragging his hand up and down the shaft in time with his thrusts and rubs his thumb slowly across the weeping head.

Jaskier makes an adorable sound that’s halfway between a whine and a gasp. “ _ Oh shit _ , Geralt, do that again.”

Geralt does, harder this time, wanting to hear what other sounds the bard can make. 

Jaskier moans.

Geralt keeps at it, moving his hand up and down his cock, kissing at the soft skin of Jaskier’s neck, and gently rolling his hips into him. He finds himself murmuring things against his skin. “It’s alright, I’ve got you. Just relax, you’re doing so well.” He loses track of his own pleasure. The sensation becomes muted as his focus is fixated on the man beneath him. 

He looks beautiful like this, Geralt thinks. His eyebrows knit together, lips parted, red and swollen from kissing, skin glistening with sweat, and Geralt-- Geralt very much wants to see what he looks like when he cums.

“Jaskier,” He breathes when the brunette makes a particularly choked up moan, “you still with me?”

Jaskier nods, breathless. “Feels good.”

“What do you need?”

“Touch-- touch me. Harder. More.”

How could Geralt deny a request like that? He’s all but too happy to comply.

Jaskier moans loudly when he cums, a shiver running through him that causes his body to clench up around Geralt’s length, and that delicious, tight pressure is enough to send Geralt over the edge after him. He buries his face in Jaskier’s neck, and scrapes his teeth at the spot where it meets his shoulder as he spills deep inside him.

They’re both breathing heavily when Geralt comes to. Jaskier is staring up at him, blue eyes half lidded as he runs a hand through Geralt’s damp hair. The feeling is almost enough to make him purr. Once the blood has stopped pounding in his ears, Geralt notices the heartbeat on the other side of the wall has retreated. 

He breathes a sigh of relief and pulls out, collapsing beside Jaskier on the mattress, boneless. 

“Geralt?”

“Hmmm.”

“Are you alright?”

“Are you?”

There’s a pause before Jaskier murmurs, “I suppose I am.”

“Then so am I.”

Jaskier makes a sound that sounds suspiciously like a snicker from beside him. Geralt doesn’t say anything more, and just lies there.

After a while, once he feels like he has control over his muscles again, he retrieves his crumpled shirt from the floor, and uses it to wipe away the drying cum on his stomach.

“You’ll regret that in the morning,” Jaskier says from the bed. 

Geralt puts a knee up on the side of the mattress and leans over him so he can clean Jaskier up as well. “That thing was hideous.”

“Yes it really wasn’t doing you any favors. Made you look like a-- what’s the word-- a sad silk trader.”

“Hmmm.” He chucks the shirt on the floor and flops back onto his spot on the bed. “We can burn it later.”

“Make sure you do mine too.”

“Hmmm.” 

It’s not long before Geralt’s eyes start to feel heavy. He can hear Jaskier’s breathing even out, his heartbeat slow. He lets himself fall asleep to the sound of it, thoughts swimming through his head as he wonders what tomorrow will bring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate chapter title: The Fuckening (that's what it's labelled as in my word doc)
> 
> Also, Geralt in this chapter: I am looking respectfully. 👀


End file.
